


Fighting Fire: The Capitol Games

by f0rt1ss1m0



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 76th Hunger Games, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Conspiracy, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Emotional Manipulation, Mind Games, Multi, Mystery, Rewrite, Romantic Subplot, Teenage Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-08-24 13:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 33,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16640915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f0rt1ss1m0/pseuds/f0rt1ss1m0
Summary: "The suffering in the districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims...in lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we will have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power."-Coriolanus Snow has been executed and President Alma Coin has her way. In an attempt to pacify the new district-led democracy, twenty-four children have been selected from the remaining Capitol population to participate in the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games. Some, like the shy Rosemarie Snow, are high profile enemies of the state. Others, like the soft-hearted Petronius Lyre, were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And others yet, like the elusive Themis Gossamer, have more secrets than anyone has bargained for.The Capitol Games have begun — for better or for worse.





	1. The Peace Offering

**Author's Note:**

> I understand that zero of my subscribers are here for Hunger Games fic, but I like to cross-post. Don't @ me. 
> 
> This is a rewrite of Fighting Fire, originally penned between 2011-2012 and published on Fanfiction.net in 2013. Understandably, as I was in middle school at the time, I am no longer satisfied with the work. I would've been okay with just letting it rest in peace. However, due to writer's block on other projects, I'm bored as hell right now.
> 
> Special thanks to my restless binge rewatch of Avatar: the Last Airbender and Legend of Korra, analytical discussion in Narratives of Human Potential, and several dozen chillwave music compilations for inspiring this fic.

A fourteen-year-old girl lay on a cot in a grey room. Her name was not Katniss Everdeen, so she would not leave the Hunger Games alive.

It wasn't nice here, though it would be churlish to expect so. The walls were familiar. The girl had visited this place before, back when the paint was bright, and her small hand still fit contently inside the guidance of her father's. A childhood tour of the remodeled tributes' Training Center. But in between the rebels' invasion and now, the walls were hastily painted over with industrial grey, leaving streaks of the original yellow near the corners and floor. The luxurious bed was removed to make room for the steel-grated cot; even the plush carpet had been ripped out, leaving behind the icy concrete floor. A deliberate move, meant to make her feel like a prisoner inside a tower once lauded with hope, glory, and fame.

Only the door was upgraded, the girl remarked to herself. Two locks on it now. Pity the locks were on the outside.

Footsteps sounded outside the door and the girl sat upright. When the door opened, it was about what she expected — two soldiers with guns and Katniss Everdeen herself. The girl on the cot regarded Katniss with hungry eyes. The Mockingjay was dressed much like the soldiers except for her signature quiver of arrows, their white fletching standing out against her black bulletproof vest.

The soldiers moved to the back of the room, but Katniss stayed to hold open the door as a fourth figure followed. President Alma Coin stepped inside the makeshift cell, her pressed grey suit almost blending into the surrounding walls. Calmly, Coin reached for the only other furniture in the room, a cold metal chair. She sat across from the girl on the cot.

"Themis Gossamer?" Coin asked. "I assume that's the name you prefer."

The girl on the cot said nothing. Just stared.

Coin smiled. "A pleasure." Still nothing, so Coin folded her legs and her hands over them. "You did give us a good chase around Panem. Your father would be proud. But I'm afraid that your little game is over."

"You want to scare me," Themis said.

They wouldn't have brought Katniss if that wasn't the intent. A ghost of some emotion — Themis couldn't tell which — flickered across Coin's face. Then she smiled again, a rubbery smile.

"You're a smart girl, Themis," Coin said. "I think you already know why you're here, and it's not so I can deliver some intimidating speech. But if you're not sure, don't feel ashamed to ask."

Themis fell silent again. The room was as cold as the early May morning outside, and she was thin and naked underneath the thin cotton shirt and pants that they had dressed her in, but she didn't dare hug herself like she wanted to. She just committed to staring back at Coin, her chapped lips closed.

Coin was a patient woman, as she so often gloated in the newscasts that Themis had seen, and waited for Themis' response for a good few minutes. But Themis didn't give in. Finally, Coin sighed, clearly unsure how to handle the situation.

"What do you think you were running from?" she asked.

"You're going to kill me," Themis whispered.

A new smile twitched at the corner of Coin's mouth. "No."

She glanced up at the ceiling, and instinctively Themis looked up as well. The white ceiling was plastered with graffiti, left by rebels when this building was overtaken as a temporary base, just like the walls had been before both Capitol and rebel colors were splashed over with grey. But the vandalized ceiling had been untouched because there, in the center, was the bold black stencil of a mockingjay.

"You're here," said Coin, "for a second chance. In accordance with your father's will and testament, rewritten after your escape, you are not to be executed alongside him. Instead of dooming you to such an immediate fate, your father agreed to enter you into what we are calling the Last Games — a final, symbolic Hunger Games held with the children of Capitolites. If you win, we guarantee you the same immunity of a normal Hunger Games victor, and we will give you whatever support you desire to start a new life."

Themis looked over to the door, where Katniss Everdeen was still standing. Katniss' gaze was downturned, not at anything in particular, but that was the tell.

"How can I believe you'll protect me?" said Themis.

Katniss flinched almost imperceptibly, but Coin didn't move.

"It would be nice, but you don't need to," said Coin. "If you would not like to participate, let me know, and we will have your execution scheduled for later this week."

Themis didn't respond. She just looked down at the swirling silver carvings on her forearms, resisting the urge to trace her fingers over them. She knew arguing was useless, so she closed her eyes. Her head hurt again.

"I agree to participate," she murmured. "I'm going to die anyway."

A childish response, but it would do. Coin nodded. "Thank you," she replied. "But I wouldn't declare defeat quite yet. You're the last tribute we could find, and you're the only one who has already killed someone."

She stood, prompting Katniss and the guards to straighten as well.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Themis," said Coin. Then she and her entourage left, locking the doors behind her, and leaving the girl on the cot with nothing to do but look at the ceiling again.


	2. Petronius and the Watchmen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure how often I'll post updates to this fic. Like always, it'll likely be determined by the alignment of the stars, a diceroll, and what i had for dinner.

It was the forty-ninth breakfast.

Eighteen-year-old Petronius Lyre had been counting. Every morning, there would be a knock on his door and the young rebel guard named Crinoline would peek her head inside and ask him if he was ready, and he would follow her downstairs to breakfast. At breakfast, there would be a roll call, and if everyone was present, then the teenagers would be given a meager breakfast of toast, oatmeal, and water.

Before breakfast number forty-nine, as Crinoline waited for the elevator with Petronius, she said, “They got Themis last night.”

Petronius had just woken up a few minutes ago and was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, so at first he didn’t understand. Confused, he looked down at his guard. “Pardon?”

“The twenty-fourth tribute. Her trial’s over.” Crinoline’s voice was more solemn than usual, and her pretty dark eyes were downcast. Petronius wanted to empathize with her, but quite frankly, it was hard to think right now. He racked his brain.

“Oh. Well...good for her,” he said at first, not knowing what he was hearing. Then he remembered. For the past thirty breakfasts, the number of names on the roll call had lingered at a steady twenty-three, always listed in order in which they had been brought to the Training Center, beginning with Petronius Lyre and ending with Rosemarie Snow. Every breakfast, every day. They were waiting for someone — Themis Gossamer, the fourteen-year-old girl who fled the Capitol after the end of the war and killed a rebel soldier. But now they had her, completing the set.

“Oh,” Petronius said again.

“Yeah.” Crinoline sighed. “So it’s any day now.”

She was focusing rather intensely on a scratch on the elevator door. When the empty elevator arrived and they stepped in, she kept staring into nothing, her expression like stone. She wouldn’t look at Petronius, but he couldn’t look away from her — her smooth brown complexion, her soulful dark eyes, her curls tucked under a white headscarf. She was nineteen, just a few months older than him, but had seen and done so much that he couldn’t help but think of her as immortal. In a way, he mused, she would be. He would pass on and she would remain.

He really couldn’t explain why he felt this way about her. When he had been imprisoned here in the Training Center tower, he knew he should have been angry with the rebels, but instead he couldn’t help but face the trial with quiet resignation. And then he’d met Crinoline. He couldn’t help but like her, even if she was a rebel. When they talked — and they had done quite a bit of that; it got lonely here — things just happened so naturally; they were best friends within weeks. And somehow, now there was something else.

For few seconds, the back of his hand brushed hers. It was an accident, really, but out of curiosity he let it stay. She didn’t pull away. He touched his pinky against hers. She moved her hand, but then her fingers tentatively began to weave through his —

Until the elevator door opened. Crinoline hastily set her hand on the hilt of her combat knife and Petronius made a show of coughing and adjusting his glasses.

She led him out into the cafeteria, where most of the teenagers were already seated and waiting for roll. Petronius had known a lot of them from school, but couldn’t say he was close to any of them. Like everything, it had a lot to do with family. Petronius’ moms, Atla and Camilla, were nothing special. A housewife and an owner of an obscure undergarment shop. Why the rebels had thought them a big enough threat to have them imprisoned and their son thrown into the Last Games, Petronius hadn’t the faintest clue.

On the other end of the spectrum, there were kids like Rosemarie, eleven-year-old granddaughter of President Snow; Electra, eighteen-year-old daughter of the Senate Pro Tempore; and Julius, sixteen-year-old son of the Peacekeeper General. High-profile political families that had known each other for years and raised their children like cousins. All of them, about six in total, sat together at some tables in the center, laughing and joking as if this was the school cafeteria.

But just like a school cafeteria, there were the people who sat more or less alone. Siblings (and there were a lot of siblings) often sat together at first, but then broke apart at random times. Petronius’ frequent spot was at the end of a table occupied by one other kid, fifteen-year-old Caius, a pale brooding boy who sat on the other end and didn’t talk to him. Of course, the nuances of social standing had kept Petronius there, but he actually didn’t mind much. Quiet was okay sometimes. Later, when the rebels released the tributes into the gymnasium to “train”, it wouldn’t be so quiet.

Within the next few minutes, other guards came with more tributes, familiar faces. Sixteen-year-old Claudia, who joined the kids at the center table. Thirteen-year-old twins Augusta and Amadeus, who sat together but alone. Fifteen-year-old Lystria and eleven-year-old Romulus, two siblings who always sat at separate tables. Then, very last, a new face stepped out of the elevator — to which the whole room went quiet.

Petronius’ first thought was that he had expected someone…less normal. Themis was small. Skinny, weak, with a sharp hungry face and reddish-brown complexion. Short black hair that looked like it had been cut with safety scissors. Her only modifications were silver tattoos on her arms and three small silver piercings around each eye. No wonder she’d been able to hide in the Districts for so long; she’d blend right into the not-yet-rebuilt slums.

She sat down alone at the nearest empty table, closest to Caius. Then Themis and Caius exchanged a single quick glance before turning away to look at other things.

Petronius raised an eyebrow. The glance was purposeful, he knew it. His moms hadn’t passed on a wealth of motherly wisdom — Petronius loved them and they loved Petronius, though it didn’t change the fact that they were collectively dumber than shit — but one thing that he remembered Atla in particular saying was “Appearances reveal history, looks reveal chemistry.” Sometimes, she claimed to be able to deduce all sorts of mysteries of a person, such as their social status and upbringing, just from how they dressed and held themselves. Petronius wasn’t totally sure if these deductions were accurate. But one thing that was always accurate was his mother’s knowledge of who was in a relationship with whom, whose family ties were strained, et cetera — all embedded in how they looked at each other.

His gut instinct told him the same thing. Themis and Caius were up to something. Something in how long that glance had been held, and how they’d done it at the exact same time, and how they deliberately sat next to each other but still separated, as if to throw off suspicion about a link. For once, Petronius wished he had actually paid attention to his moms’ ramblings about being able to read people without ever talking to them. Maybe then he’d actually know what that “up to something” was about. Or would he? Atla never knew the specifics, she wasn’t that good; she’d always have to poke and pry a little before she got the answers she liked —

_“PETRONIUS LYRE!”_

The sudden volume startled Petronius. Instinctively, he scrambled to his feet. The whole cafeteria was now looking at him, from Themis and Caius to the central table to the Lone Gamemaker himself at the front of the cafeteria. There weren’t really Gamemakers in these Games, at least, none that Petronius knew of. Mostly just tech-savvy rebels who never showed their faces down here. But there was certainly a very, very large man from District 7 who acted as a sort of drill instructor among the Capitol tributes, and that man had come to be known as the Lone Gamemaker. There were rumors that this huge, barrel-chested, scar-covered, Minotaur of a man would eventually line the twenty-four tributes up against a wall and shout every one of them to death, and that would be the Games.

The Lone Gamemaker did not look very happy. He held his little clipboard and pencil, as always, but the scowl on his face looked deeper than usual. “Mister Lyre, I have called your name three times already,” he snapped. “What on God’s green earth was clouding up that shriveled head of yours?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Petronius. Someone snickered. Petronius heard it and added, “As usual, sir,” which drew a few more giggles.

The Lone Gamemaker’s scowl lessened, the comparative equivalent of hearty, knee-slapping belly laughter. “Good,” was all he said, and marked down Petronius’ attendance on his clipboard.

Then he began calling the rest of the names, in the same order as always. From Petronius all the way down to Rosemarie. Except that he didn’t stop there. Only paused. Then he looked up and said the name for which everyone waited with bated breath:

“Themis Gossamer." 

“Present,” she said quietly, just like everyone else had. The Lone Gamemaker marked her down and then handed his clipboard off to a guard.

“Very good,” he said. “Welcome to the Hunger Games, Miss Gossamer. Since you’re new here, I’ll begin our breakfast by repeating the rules. Rules which everyone else here has heard before, since they’ve been waiting so patiently for you." 

The way he said it seemed to remind everyone that Themis was the reason they’d been eating gruel and stale toast for months. A few voices began to grumble.

“SILENCE!” bellowed the Lone Gamemaker. “THAT is the first rule, Miss Gossamer, and every other one of you. You are to be silent and to comply at all times. You are here for a reason — your parents and grandparents once held guns to our heads and forced us to hand over our children without a word of protest. Now it’s your turn. YOU are to be silent, YOU are to do as we say, and YOU are to pay the price. Use your silence to reflect on how that feels.”

It was an impressive speech, but not a new one. And not as frightening as it had been the first time. That first time, Petronius had been almost quaking in fear and anger, and all he could think about was how triumphant the Lone Gamemaker sounded as he said it. But gradually the anger wore off — as did the triumph. Only now did Petronius notice the weariness in the Lone Gamemaker’s scowl, the slight wavering every time he raised his voice, the tenseness in his shoulders as he held his hands behind his back rather than down at his side in fists. It didn’t make much sense. If the Lone Gamemaker did truly wish to see them dead, he should have been more excited to list these rules for the last time, knowing the significance of it. But Petronius dismissed it as nothing.

The Lone Gamemaker inhaled slowly, almost a sigh, and continued.

“There is no second rule. As long as you stay silent, hold in all of your complaints, and comply with our commands, you will need no other guidelines on how to live, and your stay here will be short and simple. Perhaps this sounded ridiculous thirty days ago when I last listed the rules, while our beloved twenty-fourth tribute was still missing without a trace. But I assure you. Your wait for the Games is drawing quickly to a close.

“Similarly to previous Games, you will have three additional days to train on your own. Though I can’t guarantee any of our so-called ‘trainers’ will actually help you. There will be no private sessions and no interviews. In three days, you will be taken to the arena and the Hunger Games will begin. It will be a normal Hunger Games with a single victor. There is a large majority who would prefer that all twenty-four of you die, so if you and a friend threaten to swallow nightlock together, we will not stop you.”

For once, the cafeteria was dead silent. Nobody had heard the last part before. They’d thought of it — Petronius had grown accustomed to the reality that someone in charge really wanted him dead, and he was actually quite okay with it.

But suddenly there was an image in Petronius’ head that he wasn’t sure how to approach. He remembered the Seventy-Fourth Games. Honestly, who didn’t. The bloody horizon and Cato’s broken body. Katniss and Peeta looking up at each other, poison lifted to their lips. The silence of the living room as Petronius and his mothers watched in horror. Then all of it being shattered by Claudius Templesmith’s frightened shout — but what if he had said nothing? There was something very disturbing about that. The thought of Katniss’ and Peeta’s bodies crumpling to the ground, lifeless. A motionless arena. An ending with no sound. Forever, and ever, and ever. Petronius didn’t like that.

He shook his head. Best not to dwell on such things. Oblivious positivity was sometimes the only thing that kept him from going insane.

Instead, he looked back up at the Lone Gamemaker. The man had paused his normal brisk, military strides, staring back out at the crowd of wide eyes. Finally, he sighed, turning away and waving his hand dismissively. “Breakfast will be served,” was all he said before he stepped behind a door and vanished.

 


	3. The End of Forever

 

Breakfast that morning passed remarkably slowly. For the first time since being brought to the Training Center, the Capitol’s tributes were faced with the prospect of an end. Back when there were only twenty-three tributes, no one knew how long they would wait here, in the same grueling routine of prison cell, breakfast, training, lunch, training, dinner, prison cell. It had felt like it could go on forever.

But suddenly forever was over. Themis was here and the countdown to the Games had begun, three days exactly, and suddenly there was nothing fun or familiar about the walls that held them in. Even the large group of kids in the middle of the room were trapped in the spell, their only words hushed and fearful.

After their allotted twenty minutes was over, they cleared their own plates (the rebels certainly didn’t wait on them; even the dishwasher and cook were former Capitol citizens working off their sentences with unpaid labor) and were herded into the gymnasium. This early in the morning, very few of the “trainers” were actually present — there were no rules, so most of them showed up whenever they felt like it, with a few simply not coming at all. But the few trainers who were present greeted the incoming tributes with casual smiles and first-name greetings, and Petronius watched each tribute drift to their favorite stations without a second thought.

There was one outlier — Themis, small and frail, who had been following at the back of the group the whole time and now hesitated in the gym doorway. Petronius noticed her out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t a people person by any means, but she looked lonely and anxious. Even Caius, the possible co-conspirator, hadn’t bothered to stick by her side. So, shrugging to himself, Petronius turned away from the light swords station and made his way over to the girl.

“Morning! Themis, right?” he said, jogging up to her.

She gave him a look as if he’d said something completely outlandish, not just a pleasant greeting. Typical fourteen-year-old. “Yes…?" 

“I’m Petronius,” he smiled, sticking out his hand for her to shake. She didn’t take it, so he awkwardly put it away. “Don’t worry, I’m not talking to you because I’m that much of an extrovert, I just like to get to know everyone here. You know, since you’re all going to try to slit my neck at some point.”

A hint of a smile pricked at the corner of her lips. “Don’t give me ideas.”

“Oh, God forbid.” He gasped dramatically and mimed grabbing at his throat and choking, making Themis’ hint of a smile turn into a slightly more real smile. That was good.

But then, very quickly, she pushed the smile off her face and scowled. “What do you want with me?”

Petronius shrugged. “Just thought you looked lost. I was the first one here, so I’ve generally been the person to provide unhelpful answers to all of the newbies’ questions.”

Her scowl grew a little darker. Her thin shoulders tensed, like she was seriously ready to fight Petronius. “I mean, why are you being so nice? You’d better not be trying to hit on me, because that’s gross. I’m fourteen — ”

He shook his head and grimaced, disgusted at the thought. “Oh, of course not. I had a sister who’d be your age.”

“Had.”

“Yup.”

“What happened to her?”

“Can’t say. You need to be at least a level 5 acquaintance to unlock that tragic backstory.” Petronius laughed at his own joke, fully aware that it was a stupid one. All of his jokes were stupid and he was okay with that.

“Anyway,” he continued, since Themis was giving him that teenager death-glare again, “I just wanted to let you know that there’s no shame in asking questions. Everyone around you seems to know what they’re doing, but that’s because they’ve all been here for about a month longer. And before that, they were asking me questions. I still need to figure out what about me ever gave off the impression that I know what I’m doing.”

The elusive little smile flickered across Themis’ face again. Then she sighed, as if resigning herself to the embarrassment of not knowing things. Petronius could already tell that she was a know-it-all — not even in a bad way; she was just in that early teen stage where she was truly quite intelligent but regularly overestimating said intelligence.

“I guess I have a question,” she said finally. “The rebel general said — ”

“The Lone Gamemaker.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what we call him. He likes it; it makes him feel important.”

“Oh. Okay. The…Lone Gamemaker said that we would have three ‘additional’ days to train. Have you been training every day you’ve been imprisoned here?”

Petronius nodded. “Pretty much. There’s some surprise days when we don’t, like our ‘parade’ — they shoved us in carts and took us through the streets like the chariot rides. If you had any access to TV, you might’ve seen it. But other than that, we pretty much train until we go to bed. I’ve done every station at least ten times.”

For the first time, Themis actually started looking desperate. “But that’s unfair,” she protested.

“You’re right,” said Petronius, “but I doubt the rebels would see it that way. You chose not to turn yourself in, so you forfeit the advantage of extra training days. Blah, blah, blah.”

Themis didn’t respond. She just whirled around, staring out at the tributes in the gymnasium. At the archery station, Electra effortlessly let loose three arrows into the bulls-eyes of three targets. At swords, Julius sparred with the most experienced trainer, their dulled practice swords clashing like cymbals. The tiny Rosemarie was crouched at the snares station until she stood, carrying an expertly-crafted noose. The twins, Amadeus and Augusta, practiced hurling rocks in homemade leather slings. A wood shaving dropped from the ceiling. When Petronius and Themis looked up, Caius was perched thirty feet above in the rafters, idly whittling a stick with a knife.

“Yep,” said Petronius, looking back to Themis. “You’re going to need some help.”

She folded her arms and looked away, petulant as a small child. “I hate that you’re right,” she grumbled.

“It doesn’t happen often,” Petronius replied, beaming. “C’mon. I’ll show you some stations I think you’ll like.”

He jogged off to the light blades station, leaving her to follow. After a few seconds, hesitating, she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but necessary. idk what else to say. The main reason im posting this on AO3 is because i'm bored.


	4. Mutiny, Mutiny

Training was okay. There really wasn’t a better word for it.

Themis was surprisingly strong despite such a small frame, with quick reflexes and a quicker mind. But it didn’t take long for Petronius to find that she wasn’t at all gifted in weapons. Her sight and depth perception were poor — Petronius found her rubbing her forehead multiple times, her eyes clenched shut, and wondered if there was something wrong with her eyes. She had those three metal piercings around the outside of each eye, so maybe those were causing it, or were some sort of medical technology that wasn’t working well.

Whatever it was, it didn’t serve her well in the training stations. She had the upper body strength of a gymnast, so she should’ve been good at archery, but she couldn’t hit a man-sized target from ten meters. Weapons like swords and spears were a no-go; she tended to underestimate the distance between herself and her sparring partner and would end up stumbling forward right into the practice blade.

Those were the only bases they were able to cover before people started to really watch. Normally, newbies attracted side glances and leers from passerby, but as the morning dragged on and lunch approached, the tributes started to get hungry and bored of training. By eleven o’clock, the entire rich kids’ crew was loitering at the rest area by the water cooler, with various other tributes milling pointlessly around. All of them were passing glances to the new kid.

Petronius and Themis had just finished up at agility and were both out of breath, Themis rather bruised from some jumps gone wrong. But as they passed through the rest area on the way to the water cooler, both realized that a good deal of the conversation at the rest area had gone quiet.

The rich kids — Electra, Lucio, Julius, Claudia, Ovidus, and Rosemarie — were looking at them intently. Not villainously, just intently. Naturally, Petronius decided that the best course of action was to lighten the mood.

“Hey, guys,” he said. “Mind if we sit?”

They passed wary glances around. “Go for it,” Electra finally said. Petronius knew her well from school; they had been in a lot of the same classes. She was thin and very pretty, even though her lash extensions were gone and her blue hair had washed out into a patchy, bleach-damaged auburn. She was curled up almost in the lap of Lucio, who had somehow managed to keep his alabaster white head shaven to show off his snake tattoos.

Petronius tactfully avoided Lucio, Julius, and Claudia, a.k.a. the ones most likely to beat him up, and instead sat on the floor by the water cooler. Themis gingerly followed suit.

“That’s the new kid,” said Lucio.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Electra replied.

“Hey, kid,” said Claudia, a frightening girl with a buzz cut and the body of a wrestler. “What family you from?”

“Obviously, the Gossamer family,” Julius muttered.

“Wow!” Electra cried. “We’re all so smart today!”

Julius glared. If Petronius was Electra, he wouldn’t be so keen to piss Julius off because Julius resembled a bull with a fade and gold earrings. “Fuck off, El.”

“Yeah, fuck off,” Claudia chimed. Ovidus, one of those deliberately edgy and silent types, said “heh” and kept paring his dirty fingernails with a knife.

Someone else cleared her throat. It was Rosemarie, sitting straight-backed in her chair. She looked very out-of-place among the rest of the crew — petite and small, her healthy brown hair tied in a simple braid, her skin unmarked and unpierced. But when she coughed, her peers all fell silent.

“What they mean is, why are you here,” she said. “Why are you a tribute?”

Themis shrunk minutely. But everyone was watching and waiting. “I killed someone,” she replied.

“Yeah, we heard,” said Julius, his red-tinted eyes narrowing. “But they wanted you in the Games before that, that’s why you ran. So why’d they really want you?”

“I ran because running is what you do when you’re scared of being gunned down by rebels,” Themis retorted. “I didn’t even hear about the Last Games until after I left the Capitol.”

Electra raised her pierced eyebrow. “But they were looking for you way before you blew up the guy in District 11, which means someone in your family pissed off the rebels bad enough for them to want you dead. So who was it? Do we know the name?”

Themis looked around wildly, like an animal trapped in a cage. Petronius had had enough.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” he interjected. “We’re all going to be dead in a few weeks, so who cares who her parents are — ”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk,” Claudia snickered. “Ooh, his mom sells underwear and hoopskirts, I’m so scared! Gotta put him in the Hunger Games or we’ll have a Capitol uprising on our hands!”

Petronius’ eye twitched. Claudia was scary, but she was shorter than him, and suddenly he wasn’t so scared of her. “You watch yourself.”

Claudia stuck out her tongue, showing off her huge ball piercing. “I’ll cut your fingers off in your sleep.”

“Try it,” Petronius snarled.

“The _reason that we ask,”_ said Electra loudly, glaring at both Petronius and Claudia. Hackles still up, both of them reluctantly backed down.

Electra stood, crossed the distance to Themis, and crouched down in front of her, and when she spoke again her voice was hushed. She even glanced sidewards, as if to check that none of the rebel guards were watching. They weren’t.

“The reason we ask,” she repeated, “is because you’re sitting in a room full of some of the country’s most valuable children. Heirs to industrial empires, like Lucio, who would have inherited his father’s monopoly over all the food in Panem. Sons and daughters of political leaders — Rosemarie’s the only descendant of President Snow, Julius is the eldest son of Head Peacekeeper General Romulus Kane, I’m the daughter of President Pro Tempore Clytemnestra Bell, so on, so forth. There’s a couple oddballs, like Petronius over here, but for the most part, this room holds the last generation of our shining Capitol as we know it.”

“What does that have to do with me?” asked Themis, deadpan.

Electra snickered. “Is that a serious question?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Oh, I like her,” said Ovidus, speaking up for the first time. He winked at Themis. Themis made a face like that of someone who accidentally touched wet food while washing dishes.

“That has to do with you because you might be the only thing that makes it out alive,” said Electra. “Whoever wins these Games has a responsibility. They’ll be the new Mockingjay. I know you’ve been pretty cut off from Capitol happenings, but if you haven’t heard, not everyone’s satisfied with the rebels destroying the only semblance of government left in the civilized world. The victor of these Games is going to change that.”

“They’re going to lead a counter-rebellion,” said Themis softly.

Electra smiled. “Finally, she catches on. So the reason we ask is that we need to know if you’re worth protecting. Kids like Petronius, well, they’re nothing special, nobody knows who the Lyres are. But if someone like Rosemarie or Julius was to win the Games...well, that’s a cause to rally behind.”

“So you’re banding together to increase the chance that a more important tribute wins.”

“Bingo,” Electra snapped her fingers. “Which is why we’re asking you who your parents are.”

Themis hesitated. Then she sighed. “My mother is dead. I never knew her. My father was Charon Gossamer, a professor of cybernetic science at the university. A close friend of Vice President Ivory. But he wasn’t really special. I guess they wanted me for the Games just because I was an easy target, but then when I — when I ran away, I became more interesting.”

“She’s got a point,” said Julius. “Just because her dad’s nothing does mean she’s nothing; the whole country knows what she did. She wouldn’t make a terrible Mockingjay.”

Electra stood and nodded, though she didn’t look very impressed. “Okay. We’ll think about it,” she said, as if Themis had come up begging to be a part of their group and now they were at the leisure of accepting or rejecting her. “But about your fighting, it’s embarrassing. I’d hit the stations again if I were you.”

For a few moments, Themis just stared at her. Petronius came to the sudden realization that he had been watching Themis nearly this whole time and she hadn’t blinked once. But finally she blinked and sharply stood up.

“Okay. Thank you,” was all she said. Then she walked away stiffly, heading back to the knives station.

Now everyone was looking at Petronius. “I’m…going to leave now,” he laughed breathily. And he did.

He caught up with Themis, who had picked up a tiny, triangular knife not much longer than a toothpick. “Hey, uh, so that was something,” he said.

“You were very quiet,” said Themis bluntly.

“They did that with everyone.” Petronius shrugged. “Guess they were super excited to do it one last time though, because it was extra dramatic.”

“They’re not very good at it,” she commented. “Those are hardly the most important kids in the Capitol. They don’t even have the Vice President’s son.”

Caius. Hm. Yeah, something was up with Themis and that kid. “Well, you know what it actually is,” Petronius explained. “They try to pass it off as a Career-type alliance, all in the name of self-interest. Join our powerful group and have a shot at glory and fame and leading a revolution.”

“Isn’t that what it was?”

He shook his head. “No. They weren’t testing you to see if you’d make a good victor. They were testing to see if you’d make a good hero. Because if their plan works, all of them will die except Rosemarie Snow.”


	5. Almost

That night, Petronius almost kissed Crinoline. 

It was a quiet elevator ride and they were alone and both of them were tired and as Crinoline led Petronius back to his locked room, his hand brushed hers again and their gazes met for too long. He didn’t have to wear handcuffs anymore, so he could have done it; he could have used the moment when they were both frozen in time to cup her face and kiss her. But he, unsurprisingly, chickened out. Then he spent the rest of the night curled up on his cot, hitting his forehead, and muttering “stupid stupid stupid” because Crinoline  _ definitely  _ knew that he liked her now. And she  _ definitely  _ didn’t feel the same way. And he  _ definitely  _ just ruined a perfectly normal friendship, or at least a friendship that was as normal as one between a Capitolite tribute and a District 8 soldier could get. 

Unknown to Petronius, Crinoline lay awake in her bedroom down the hall, thinking the exact same thing in reverse. 

The elevator ride the next morning was no less awkward. After a full two minutes of silence, as she unlocked his room and led him to wait for the elevator, they both decided to talk at the same time. 

“Petro — ” began Crinoline at the same time that Petronius began with “Crinol — .” They both froze, their cheeks hot. 

“You go first,” she said.

“No, I insist,” he replied. 

“I — well — it’s not important. What were you saying?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all, just…uh…I hope they let us go outside today! I looked out the window and it looks warmer.”

“Uh, heh, yeah, it’s warmer! I hope we go outside too! I — I mean, not us, but you and the other tributes, with us guards following behind. As usual.”

“You’re right, I think that would be. Uh. Good.”

They fell into the world’s worst silence. The elevator came, dinging cheerfully. There was nothing else to think about that wasn’t crippling embarrassment, so during the ride, they both tried desperately to focus on the cheerful dings. Both of them figured out that it was a D-flat before they reached the basement. 

Themis had taken to sitting by herself, but Petronius didn’t want to be alone with his shame, so he went over to the table with the siblings, Amadeus and Augusta. They were weird but nice, and they liked him, or at least, they claimed that they liked him. That was good enough for Petronius. 

Then there was training and training and — surprise! — more training. Now alone, Petronius was left to do whatever he liked. Outside of unarmed combat, his specialty was light swords, those thin, quick blades that allowed him to strike and slash in a flicker of light. You could never get too much practice with those. So he sparred with the trainer until they were both sweating and worn out, and then Petronius went to run on the treadmills. Then he played with the ropes at the climbing wall that he had long since mastered.

In all honesty, it was a very boring existence. Run, train, lift weights, so on, so forth. But he’d never been so fit in his entire life. Just from the normal chub of puberty, he’d once vaguely resembled a teddy bear — tall and thick, but mostly pudge. Now, he looked in the mirror and liked what he saw. Defined muscles, a chiseled abdomen, a sharp Roman jawline. Couldn’t do anything about his taped-up glasses or scruffy hair; the rose gold highlights had begun to fade in the shower and his last pair of contact lenses were ruined weeks ago. But he liked it. 

At some point during afternoon training, he paused to look out over the gymnasium. Caius Ivory had spent the past week weaving a hammock for some reason, and was currently scaling the gymnasium walls with the completed hammock slung over his shoulder. Once he reached the ceiling, he swung leisurely onto a catwalk and began to tie the hammock up between two supports. Far underneath Caius, training continued as usual — Lucio and Claudia were wrestling on the mat; Julius hurling taunts, Electra shouting promises to make out with whoever won. Little Rosemarie looked like she had started watching the wrestling match, but was now watching Caius as he climbed into the hammock thirty feet above the ground. Themis was sitting in a corner, not doing anything in particular, but she wasn’t alone; most of the other tributes weren’t doing anything in particular either.

It didn’t really look like a group of kids who would die in a few days. But Petronius didn’t really blame them. After the initial shock of Themis’ arrival, nothing had changed about their routine. The Lone Gamemaker didn’t give any more intimidating speeches. Gym trainers who had failed to show up before continued to not show up; trainers who were friendly with the tributes continued to be friendly. Nobody talked about the inevitable. 

Maybe it was because this wasn’t a real Hunger Games, Petronius mused to himself. At about this time, their mentors should have been talking about their interview angle. Their stylists should have been taking measurements for their outfits. Come the arrival of the last tribute, everything should have changed, but nothing did. And ever still, they felt suspended in the soft, unending tension of waiting.

Or maybe it was just Petronius, who couldn’t help but count the seconds until Crinoline came back to get him. Not in anticipation. Almost in dread. But not quite.

Finally, after dinner, she did. They both avoided eye contact as she took him back to the elevator and then to his prison cell room. But Petronius didn’t like the silence, either. It made him feel like they were mad at each other, and they definitely weren’t — were they?

“Crinoline,” he said.

They both stopped in the middle of the floor. But suddenly Petronius lost his nerve. 

“Um,” was all he got out. “Nevermind.”

He hadn’t noticed the hope on Crinoline’s face until it left. “Oh. Okay,” she said quietly. 

She turned away and began heading back to the cell, expecting him to follow. But he didn’t. The look of hope was burned into his mind.

“May I kiss you?” he blurted. 

Crinoline whirled around. Her soft brown eyes widened. “What?”

Something shriveled up inside Petronius. Shit. That was a mistake. “Oh, um, nevermind,” he laughed breathily, “forget I said anything — ”

She threw herself at him so fast that their noses bumped, but it didn’t matter. She was kissing him and that was all he could think about — how soft her lips were, how good she smelled, how nice it felt to slip his hands into the small of her back even though she was wearing a high-powered rifle and a full suit of rebel armor. Nobody would walk in on them; she was the only one here. The only one he needed. 

This time, when she pulled away to lead him, it wasn’t back to his cell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finals are in high gear and my constant mental soundtrack is "everybody knows shit's fucked" at 8x speed


	6. The Killer and the Mockingjay

Two floors above Petronius, on what used to be District 12’s floor, Themis Gossamer sat in the dark in her cell. 

This used to be Katniss Everdeen’s room. She’d learned that a day or so ago, while listening in on the rebel guards as they partied and drank just outside her room. Well, it wasn’t really listening in. The door to her room wasn’t exactly soundproofed and the rebels were loud. 

She had the misfortune of being a “high security” tribute. If not, one of the highest. Most of the high security tributes — Claudia, Julius, Lucio, the ones who had put up a fight when they were taken away — were kept on one of the Careers’ floors, all in one place and easy to monitor. Like Themis’ room, the bedrooms down there had been converted into cells. And like Themis, each of the high security tributes had been assigned at least four guards apiece. But Themis was alone on her floor.

She knew this because she had seen the map.

There was no wild rebel party tonight, and the two guards outside her cell had grown bored of conversation and fell silent, likely dozing by the fireplace. Themis had easily an hour until they were scheduled to open her cell and check that she was still inside, so she decided that now was as good a time as ever to check her hand again. 

Slowly, careful not to rock the creaky metal cot, Themis stood and padded towards the window. The concrete stung her bare feet with cold, and as she climbed up into the bare window seat, the metal was like ice through her thin cotton clothes. But the moon was bright and full tonight. In the spires of buildings below, lights glittered as they always had, and for a second Themis could almost pretend that nothing was wrong. Perhaps she was a real tribute headed to a real Hunger Games. Perhaps the rebellion had never happened, and the districts remained in their proper places. Perhaps she would die, lauded in glory and fame, immortalized in an archive of hundreds of Games before and after her. 

That was the fantasy where nothing was wrong. And yet, even as a fantasy, it didn’t feel right.

She shook her head and looked down. The insides of her forearms both bore the same symmetrical designs — elegant silver tattoos carved permanently into her skin. Carvings were more popular among adults than teenagers, but it wasn’t unheard of for a younger child to beg for them, so the ones on her arms attracted little more than aesthetic interest. 

She traced her fingers of her left hand over the carvings on her right arm, following the lines and half-moon curves. She had done this so many times that the movements were instinctual. Once every line had been traced, she tapped the dots and beads in a very particular order. Then she switched to her other arm, repeating the pattern before cupping her hands together. 

Her palms began to glow. Then a holographic blue sphere appeared between them, awaiting her command.

She couldn’t remember a time when her body couldn’t do this. She hadn’t been born right — no eyes, no arms, no legs, too small, half dead. And cybernetics for a child were expensive, as they had to be replaced as the child grew. But they’d managed. Dad would do anything for her. He had even programmed most of these functions himself, adding the tattoo touch-code and holo computer, installing microscopic hard drives into her wrists that contained over a hundred terabytes of data space — only a fraction of a percentage of which was used to control the movement of her hands. 

No, her hands were fine. Her eyes were giving out on her, having more and more depth perception errors every day and causing splitting headaches. But she couldn’t complain, because her success depended on people not knowing that she held the key out of the arena in her hands and head. 

She flicked her wrists to expand the holographic sphere into a wide, flat interface, glowing blue with a galaxy of white icons scattered across it. Then she went to work. With a few deft taps against the interface, she pulled up a live video feed — a screen-recording of a computer she had hacked. The computer itself was in a locked room of the control center to the arena. It was currently set to a blueprint of the Training Center building and showed twenty-four glowing dots, each with a small code, D1M through D12F. 

The codes were formalities. A remnant of the old Games. Of course, the Capitol tributes didn’t have official district numbers, but as each of them was entered into the Training Center, they had had Games trackers inserted into their arms “just in case”. The existing trackers had district codes assigned to them and whoever ran the security feeds apparently hadn’t been damned to change it. 

Themis wasn’t entirely sure which name belonged to which code, but a few she could easily figure out. She was D12F — the last tribute here, and the only dot residing on the top floor. Two floors down was another single dot, D1M. Petronius Lyre, the first one here. 

There were only a few cases where one tribute had the whole floor to themselves. Others, like the problem kids on floor one, would have multiple tributes crammed together. It was very scattered and disorganized and there initially seemed to be no pattern to who was where, but the rebels were too smart to room them randomly. Themis began to wonder if she could learn something from this. Perhaps the rebels knew something about certain tributes that made them want to isolate them or put them with other tributes, or maybe —

The sound of multiple footsteps padded outside her door and the lock clicked.

Immediately, Themis clapped her hands together and the whole holo interface vanished. There was no point to diving back in bed and pretending to be asleep; her whole body was trembling at the close call and all she could manage was standing up from the window seat. But when the door opened, it wasn’t the rebels. 

It was  _ the _ rebel, Katniss Everdeen. 

She was dressed plainly this time, her bulletproof costume exchanged for a simple grey pea coat. One soldier tried to come with her, but she shook her head and shut the door. 

“Can we talk?” she asked. 

“Aren’t you scared?” Themis whispered. 

Katniss met her eyes. “Are you?”

She didn’t answer that.

“What were you hiding?” said Katniss. “In District 11. You don’t blow up a whole room just to kill one rebel.”

“Maybe I really hated him,” Themis replied. 

“Maybe so, but you had explosives all over the place before we found you. I watched a video of it. They took you away, and that one soldier started walking towards the back of the room. Then you jerked your arm like you were throwing a grenade, like all the witnesses say you did, but nothing left your hand.”

Themis didn’t respond to that either. She just climbed back up onto the window seat and pulled her thin legs up to her chest. 

“You wanted us to think that you were defending yourself, so as they took you, you pretended to struggle and then randomly throw a bomb,” said Katniss. “But you weren’t defending yourself. You were defending whatever was in that room.”

“It doesn’t matter what I was defending,” Themis snapped. “I’m going to the Hunger Games anyway. It’s over.”

Katniss gave her a curious look. “I don’t think you believe that.”

They both went silent. After a while, Themis said, “You can leave. You and Coin aren’t getting any more out of me.”

“What makes you think I’m here for Coin?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

Katniss folded her arms. “Do you think that I only do what Coin tells me to do?”

“I had the impression, yes.”

Her lip tightened. Themis knew that she was getting on Katniss’ nerves, which was one of the things that Themis knew for sure she was genuinely good at.

“I’m not Coin’s puppet,” she said defensively.

“Were you told who dropped the parachute bombs?”

Now Katniss’s spine stiffened, too. The unsaid answer was yes. A dangerous glint sparked in Themis’ eye.

“Have you ever wondered who really killed your sister?”

Katniss inhaled sharply. “Shut up.”

“Who told you? Was it Coin? Or was it one of ours?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Katniss snapped.

Themis stood up sharply. “I was _there!”_ she yelled. “I was in the President’s control room, _not_ you, I know what he said and I know what I saw. Snow never _hesitated_ to pick up his pen and sign the peace treaty — until your ships came over the horizon to wipe us out for good! _Your_ ships, not ours!”

Someone began pounding on the door before she could finish, but Themis wouldn’t be drowned out. She hadn’t realized how angry she was about this until now, when it all came bursting out. She realized she liked to see the Mockingjay squirm, glancing between her and the door. The person outside kept pounding.

“Miss Everdeen! Miss Everdeen, are you okay?”

Katniss and Themis just stared at each other. Themis half-expected Katniss to just not say anything and let the guards break the doors down, but then Katniss did something that she hadn’t yet — she surprised her. 

“Yes,” she said calmly. “I’m fine.”

Themis’ shoulders relaxed. She hadn’t realized she’d been tensed up until then. Katniss’ eyes never left hers, never wavered, just watched. 

“I don’t know what you’re planning,” said Katniss. “But whatever it is, just remember that nobody’s rooting for you.”

She turned and left. Themis remained there in the dark, and after a while, she climbed up to her window seat and traced her tattoos again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus begins the chaos that I call "trying to manage multiple plotlines". Hopefully, this works.
> 
> Let me know what you think is going to happen, or what you like/dislike about this story in general!


	7. The Wild Youth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very sorry! forgot to post this last saturday. chapter 8 will be posted this saturday on schedule.

Even though it might have been Petronius’ second to last day alive, he spent the first few hours of it grinning like a maniac. 

First of all, he had woken up in a real bed for the first time in months. Second of all, he hadn’t woken up alone — Crinoline was in his arms, and when her eyes fluttered open she kissed him softly. (Then, because why not, they made love a second time.) As they waited for the elevator, they made out until it came, and once the doors closed behind them they made out until the doors opened again. 

As Petronius made his way to his normal table, the moody Caius Ivory looked up, scowled from behind his messy black bangs, and asked, “What’s with the smile?” 

“Oh...nothing,” said Petronius, still beaming like a lightbulb. “What’s with that being the first time you talk to me voluntarily?”

Caius’ scowl just grew deeper. “Jeez,” he muttered. But it hardly dampened Petronius’ mood. 

He had a girlfriend.  _ Wow. _

Even the atmosphere of the cafeteria couldn’t faze him, which might have sounded insensitive because everyone knew what day it was. The day before the Last Games. Instead of being solemn like they had a few days ago, everyone was suspended in a state of nervous, tensed chattering. The Rosemarie Snow Protection Squad resembled a huddle of football players and seemed about as approachable as a hive of tracker jackers. Even the “loners” had begun to band up. It was mostly by age, which seemed like a bad idea; there was a rather large group of former loners who Petronius knew were all under the age of fourteen.

He decided to put his good mood to use and went to sit with them. 

There were about eight kids at one table today, way more than usual. Overall, the number of kids thirteen and under was a little disproportionate for a normal Hunger Games — since there were no tesserae, just malice and vengeance. There were even two eleven-year-olds, selected for no reason than the rebels especially hated their parents. But Petronius knew that these kids were by no means helpless. Their sudden grouping might’ve been initially out of fear, but these kids were buzzing with bloodlust.

As Petronius walked over and sat down at the end of the table, Amadeus, a skinny freckled thirteen-year-old with purple eye tattoos, was talking excitedly to the others. “So the trick is just to be silent, right until you’re about to do it,” he was saying. “If they know you’re behind them, they’ll tense up, and it’ll be harder to make the snap ‘cause they’ll be tense. This is when you wanna grab the chin and the side of the head like I described, and pull as hard and fast as you can — oh, hey Petro!”

“Hey, guys,” Petronius grinned. He tried not to think about the fact that Amadeus knew how to snap someone’s neck. “How’s it going?”

“Bad,” said Augusta, Amadeus’ twin sister. She had matching eye tattoos, but instead of curling fiercely upwards like her brother’s, they melted down her face like tears. “Didn’t you hear? My guard said the rebels really aren’t letting anyone win. They’re just gonna wait for all of us to kill each other and then they’ll blow up the victor.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Romulus, a stocky silver-haired eleven-year-old with a lip piercing. 

A few of the kids giggled. Eleven-year-old Titania gasped. “You said a bad word.”

Romulus grinned. “Oops. Fuck.”

More giggles. Typical of middle schoolers. Petronius chuckled, glad that they could laugh about something even as petty as a swear word.

“But, like, that’s why we’re banding together!” said Amadeus, leaning on Augusta’s shoulder. “Petro, I dunno if you’ve heard, but this is the biggest new thing — we’re calling us the Elites. We’re like the Careers, except that we’re, like, better.”

The other kids gave up a chorus of “yeah!”s. Twelve-year-old Callia even thumped her fist on the table. Amadeus grinned, excited. 

“Sure, some of us might get killed,” he said, “but if we stick together, we all have a better chance of surviving. Then, once all of the really mean kids die, we can find some nightlock and do a Katniss Everdeen, and then we all live!”

“That won’t work! Didn’t you hear what the Lone Gamemaker said? He said they don’t care if we all die!” Augusta wailed. 

“He doesn’t know that,” said Petronius sternly. “Besides what he and the guards have told you, do you know that for sure? Have you asked every single rebel if they want us all dead?”

The children were all staring at him now. Augusta sniffled. “N...no.”

“Then who knows!” Petronius shrugged. “The Gamemaker’s pretty much stuck inside this building just like the rest of us. He’s barely talked to anyone except us.”

“Sometimes he leaves,” Titania piped. “I heard him say he was going to get some alcohol.”

“Well, maybe he leaves,” said Petronius, “but that doesn’t mean he’ll tell us everything that people think of us. Do you remember at the tribute parade? I know it wasn’t fun, but does anyone remember the rebels that didn’t cheer?”

All of the soft faces went solemn. They all remembered. The tribute parade, where they had each been handcuffed to a chariot and driven down the streets for rebels to jeer and taunt them. Except for small pockets of rebels who hadn’t. They were obvious because most of the rebels who were there for the fun had dressed up for the occasion, too, wearing stolen Capitolite fashion and sloppily-applied face paint in a crude mockery of the normal parade-goers. The rebels that didn’t cheer were dressed quite plainly. Some were in all black, as if in mourning. After the parade, some of the younger tributes asked in curiosity, but all were dismissed rudely by their guards. 

“I think they were protesting,” said Petronius. “I think some of the rebels didn’t want these Games to happen.”

“That’s really bullshit,” said Romulus. He seemed quite attached to that word. A few of the other tributes echoed him. 

“Yeah, that’s dumb, they’re rebels,” said thirteen-year-old Valerius. “Of course they want these Games’ta happen. It’s revenge.”

“Lystria told me that they might do this every year until all of us are dead,” said Romulus. 

“Every Capitolite?!” Callia squeaked. 

Romulus nodded solemnly, but Petronius shook his head. 

“No! No, they’re not going to do that,” he said. “You can’t think like that; there are people who care about us. Maybe they’ll send us tribute gifts to help us survive. Or maybe they’ll vote the Games off and none of us will die. We don’t know that they’re going to kill all of us.”

“It’s more likely than them letting us all live.” 

Amadeus stood up and folded his skinny arms. For such a young kid, his voice was surprisingly low. He glanced down to Augusta, who was still crying, and sighed. 

“But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we go out there, kick some ass, and do our best to survive. If that’s all we can do, we’ll do it.”

His solemn band nodded in response. Petronius didn’t know what to say. He just stared at this group of kids, the same age as hundreds of others who died before. But somehow, when they were just figures on the screen, when they weren’t kids that his younger brother had grown up with — when they were just kids from the districts, it was so much easier to see.

Petronius looked behind him, towards the group at the center table. They cast glances over their shoulders every now and again, mainly towards the group of younger tributes. When Petronius met Lucio’s eyes, Lucio glared at him hard enough to break glass. As if Petronius sitting with a group of middle schoolers was a threat.

Suddenly, rage flashed in Petronius’ chest. Every day, at every opportunity, the center table kids bragged about preserving a new Mockingjay — but preserve her from what? A group of scared twelve-year-olds? Here they were, the strongest and biggest tributes in the Games, and their “brave and moral crusade” was to pick off a bunch of skinny kids? Maybe they were logically “right”, and protecting Rosemarie was the only way to ensure that the Capitol wouldn’t be erased permanently from history, but that didn’t make it  _ right! _

If he was a braver man, he would have had to force himself from standing up and telling the center table to mind their own fucking business for once. But he was not. So he just sat, silent and gripping his fork hard enough to make indents in his skin.

When they were released for training, Petronius waited in the cafeteria until everyone was gone before asking to return to his room. 

The guard on duty hadn’t been happy, but he begrudgingly made the radio call. Crinoline appeared within minutes. Without a single word, she took him back to the elevator, up to their floor, and into their bedroom. They hugged until Crinoline pulled back.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Not anymore.”


	8. Happy Life

_Sometimes I picture this happy life_ _  
_ _Burning in the depth of time_ _  
_ _Where sadness is a myth to me_   
_Is that something you can give to me?_

 

The next morning came too soon. The day before, Petronius returned once to the gymnasium to practice, but returned upstairs before an hour had passed. Crinoline told the other guards that Petronius had gotten sick and, while a little bit of training was alright, he still needed to recover.

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Petronius cried for much of the time. He wasn’t even sure about what. There were a million things to pity himself for, so many that he didn’t even bother naming them all, so many that they just spilled. He tried again and again to get Crinoline to not worry for him, afraid that he was burdening her, but she didn’t leave his side. She brought his lunch and dinner from the cafeteria, curled up beside him, and talked with him when he felt a little better.

The reason was “the last meal”, and neither said it aloud, but they knew it. They wanted each other so bad, but they had so little time, and it was hard to know whether they should be sad or peaceful or flirty or what. It turned out to be a little of everything. They talked a lot. Some of it was sad and philosophical, but some of it was playful and silly, and there was a particular time that led to Crinoline undressing but just lounging around wrapped in a blanket for a few hours as they got distracted and chatted about embroidery. There was a half-naked pillow fight. There was a lot of kissing. And later that night, there were a good deal of other things.

The next morning, they woke up together again, tangled in sheets. Petronius’ strong arms wrapped around Crinoline’s petite, wiry form. Crinoline stirred, causing Petronius to shift, and as they slowly came to, she rolled over to meet Petronius’ gaze.

“Mmm...morning,” she said sleepily.

He touched her dark face and kissed her. They both had morning breath, which was gross, but who cared. She was as beautiful as ever. “Good morning.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Um. I think I’m okay. I’m sorry for last night.”

She yawned and shook her head. “No. Don’t be, you’re really stressed.”

“I mean — ” His cheeks flooded with heat and he looked aside. “I mean I’m sorry for not, uh, pulling out. I just — I forgot, and I know that’s a lame excuse, but if you’re mad, then I understand — ”

Crinoline kissed him. “I said don’t be sorry,” she said sternly.

“I’m s — uh — okay.”

“I’m serious. You forgot because you were preoccupied with helping me have a good time — that’s literally the best excuse ever.”

“Well — what if…?”

“If I got pregnant?”

Petronius’ cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Well, what if it does?”

“That’s okay.”

“A baby could change your life, it’s not okay — ”

“A little over a year ago I was a girl at a factory spinning loom. My whole life’s plan was to find another silk spinner, have children who would help me spin silk, and spin more silk until I died. Well, I’m not a spinner anymore, I’m a security guard for Hunger Games tributes. So I think that if my life’s going to change again, it should be for something really, really good.”

Petronius went quiet. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the scandal of unplanned pregnancies — he himself only existed in the world because of one. His biological mother had him in an adulterous relationship and only brought him to term because she thought she could pass him off as a legitimate child, but a paternity test was done and his bio-mom had to give him up for adoption and then…and then that brought him all here, because the rebels had something against his adoptive moms. All because of an affair that went wrong. Sure, that was an extreme case, but the thought of putting Crinoline through all that gossip and shame…

“What will you tell everyone?” he asked. “Once they find out?”

To his surprise, Crinoline laughed. “First of all, you gotta stop assuming the worst. The chance of me being pregnant after one mistake is super small.”

“Well — I mean — okay.”

“Second of all, even if I _am_ , then I just say it. I fell for the bravest young man in the Capitol and we decided to make our love real. I’m not afraid of saying that.”

He fell silent again. Her delicate brown hand lay against the pillow, so he took it and kissed it gently. Then he moved closer, breathed in the scent of her hair and her skin, and closed his eyes.

“Will you tell me?” he asked at last. “As soon as you find out, can you send me a note?”

“Petro, I can’t know that early — ”

“No, you can. There’s some really early tests, I think. They typically don’t use them in the districts, since it’s a lot of high tech stuff, but I’d look into it.”

She sighed. “Alright. I’ll do it for you.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“But it’s not going to happen.”

“Maybe it will.”

“Maybe you’re paranoid.”

“I live in a constant state of fear, this isn’t new.”

She laughed and snuggled up closer to him. They kissed once, then again, pulling the covers all around them.

A while later, Crinoline’s alarm clock went off and they untangled themselves from each other. She took him to the shower and they cleaned off together, taking extra care as they knew this was the last shower he would have in weeks. Then she gave him a package of clothes — the first new clothes he had had for months, besides the flimsy cotton shirts and pants they were made to wear.

These clothes weren’t much better. A light shirt, a heavier all-weather jacket, cargo pants, a paracord belt, and light boots. It was all in bland industrial greys and blacks, much like the rebels’ uniforms. They both tried to figure out what the arena was from just the clothes, but were fruitless; short of an arctic tundra, it could have been anything. So they gave up.

Then they sat there. In minutes, another guard would appear at the door and help Crinoline take Petronius away — the other guard would see Petronius in Crinoline’s bed, the young woman resting her head on Petronius’ chest. But when it happened, they didn’t care anymore. It was quiet and they were content like that. Just sitting there.

When the second guard came, Petronius didn’t struggle, just stood and bowed his head and went. For the first time, he wasn’t taken to the cafeteria; there was a breakfast waiting at the deserted table. Hard-boiled eggs, bacon, toast, fruit, juice, and milk, a meal unlike any he’d eaten in a long time. All he ate was the bacon, toast, and the milk, and then when the second guard wasn’t looking and Crinoline was pretending not to, he slipped two eggs, a juice box, and an apple into his pockets.

Then they took him away.

It seemed to happen in a blur — one moment he was in the tower; the next in a hovercraft, strapped into a chair with the other tributes around him; then in a cold grey cell somewhere far underground. It was silent and only Crinoline was with him.

She sat him down in a chair and had him roll up his sleeves, revealing the tiny mark where his tracker had been injected long ago. She pulled out a small device to scan it, checking that it was still working. “Are you nervous?” she asked.

“No, I’m perfectly fine, haha,” he said.

“The tracker says your heart rate is 150 beats per minute.”

“I’m...yeah.”

She reached into the pouch on her belt and pulled out a small syringe. “I smuggled this out for you,” she explained. “Mild sedative, we used it a lot before raids. It doesn’t stop you from fighting, but it calms you enough to think clearly and...and not do something stupid.”

Trying to keep her hands steady, she readied the needle over his arm and prepared to inject it. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Crinoline,” said Petronius.

“I’m trying to concentrate,” she said. Her hands were still trembling. She couldn’t inject the needle.

“Crinoline…”

“Please don’t go into the bloodbath,” she blurted. She pulled the syringe away and hugged Petronius tight. “Run away. Run away from everything. Don’t fight unless you have to. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said. He kissed her forehead, then closed his eyes. He said it, but he really couldn’t promise. He had never had to fight for his life before. Sure, he wrestled and sparred at school, but that wasn’t the same. Fighting for his life wasn’t something that a person like him would ever do; it always happened to someone else, someone lesser. He realized, with stunning clarity, that he had grown up with the idea that death only happened on TV. He did not know what he would do if his life was actually in danger. So he just kissed her again and, for the first time in a long time, prayed.

Somehow they got the syringe in and instantly Petronius’ pulse stopped racing. He breathed. Then a voice came on over Crinoline’s earpiece and said it was time. Petronius’ heart skipped a beat, struggling against the lull of the sedative.

“It’ll be okay,” he said aloud.

“It’ll be okay,” she echoed.

She led him to the back of the cell, where a door slid back to reveal a glass launch tube. Like an animal to the slaughterhouse, Petronius stepped obediently inside.

Crinoline wouldn’t let go of his hands.

“Run,” she whispered. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said.

She let go. The glass door closed around him and the tube went dark.

For a few moments, he could not breathe. He felt himself rising, rising, rising into the world unknown, and just beyond the soothing haze over his brain, his body screamed not to let it take him. But he just stood there, his stance uncertain, his fists half-closed but not quite clenched, his face turned upwards and his eyes closed.

Then a soft red glow touched his eyelids. A familiar scent.

It felt, somehow, like home.

 

 _Or maybe it's fine_ _  
_ _You see, a lot of people die_   
_And never find this, so_

_…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is "Happy Life" by Roland Faunte.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! The bloodbath is next chapter, see you next Saturday!


	9. Broken City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early update bc tomorrow will be very busy! we are getting a cat :D
> 
> enjoy the first day of the games! things are heating up. i also have drafted the remainder of the plot and have an official chapter count — 50 chapters, so if you guys are wondering exactly where we are in the story, that should give you a good idea. a LOT is about to happen here and i can't wait to share it with all of you!!
> 
> please leave your thoughts/comments/etc i love to hear from my readers!!

Petronius opened his eyes. 

He was, indeed, home.

At first, he thought it was just the sedative — what the hell had Crinoline given him? — making him see things. He was in his own bedroom. He stood at the foot of his twin bed, with the purple quilt and the crooked Perseus the Punisher wrestling poster on the wall behind it. His moon lamp, his study desk, his MMA trophies, and his photos were all here. It even smelled like Atla’s favorite air freshener. The blinds were drawn, letting in a mysterious filtered red light, but Petronius was so surprised at being here inside his  _ room  _ of all places that he couldn’t care less what was outside.

They’d brought him back home? That whole hours-long hovercraft ride was just to take him across the Capitol and drop him inside his apartment? Since when did they build a Hunger Games launch tube into his apartment building? It made no sense. And because it made no sense, suddenly Petronius was quite scared. 

He ran out of his room and into the hall, which looked just as it had been left. Family photographs and decors all over the walls, Caeneus’ room with the “NO GIRLS OR PETRONIUSES ALLOWED” sign on the door, his moms’ bedroom down the hall. He opened Caeneus’ room first — nothing new, nothing out of place; the floor was just as messy as a fourteen-year-old boy’s room could get. Action figures and sports equipment were everywhere. When Petronius went to his moms’ bedroom, it was spotless, just as Atla liked it. A small vase of Camilla’s favorite flowers, daisies, sat on the bedside table. 

It was home and it was perfect and it was absolutely, uncannily, horridly  _ wrong. _

Despite the sedative, Petronius couldn’t stop the panic from rising in his throat. Something was wrong. He raced around the apartment, calling his brother’s and moms’ names, knowing that he wouldn’t find them. The shadows were too dark. The silence was too dense. The refrigerator was empty. The sinks and faucets didn’t work. The TV was on, but nothing showed on the screen except static, no matter what buttons Petronius pressed. 

They were inside his head. There was no other explanation for it. The rebels were playing a mind game, Petronius knew, and if this was just the beginning…

He shook his head. “I can’t think like that,” he told himself, speaking aloud. “I need to know what I’m dealing with.” So he steeled himself, turned to the front door, and reached for the handle. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected. The dull apartment hallway, perhaps. But it was far from dull. 

It was like his entire building, except this one apartment, had dissolved away, leaving behind a new reality. Before Petronius lay a world that defied description. The remains of buildings were clustered together as far as his eye could see, ruined spires and smoldering towers creating a distant mockery of a city. There were even Capitol landmarks among them, the Senate building and the shopping district’s towers. But everything was off. Streets randomly glitched and faded into chunks of static. A building in the distance flickered in and out of existence. In parts of the arena, even gravity itself seemed to have failed, letting debris and rubble float across the blood red sky, where the sun and the moon both burned next to each other. The wind was thick and hot and humid. The air before an electric storm. 

At first, Petronius stumbled back at the sight, and on second glance nearly screamed because the front step of his apartment seemed to drop off into thin air. The third glance — given as he gripped tightly to the doorframe — revealed a little more. It dropped off a little suddenly, but then led down four or five flights of cracked stone steps. The steps led down into the arena — no, an actual arena, like the center of the Roman Coliseum. Inside the small arena was the Cornucopia, yet untouched. 

_ BOOM! _

Petronius gasped and flinched back, his eyes snapping up. It was then that he noticed the central design of the arena. Twenty-three other buildings — some apartments like his, some homes, some entire mansions — stood on enormous Roman-style pillars with sleek marble steps leading down towards the Cornucopia. 

Except that now, there were twenty- _ two _ others. One of the buildings, a small house across from Petronius, was now up in smoke, and the stairs crumbled away until there was nothing left. A second  _ boom!  _ echoed in the sky — a pre-bloodbath cannon. 

Petronius inhaled shakily. Right. Run down the stairs before everyone is ready, and you die in a shower of ash. He wondered who had forgotten. 

All around the arena, the bomb brought tributes out of their homes. To the right of Petronius was a giant mansion, and Electra Bell ran out with her fists clenched. To the left was Lystria, Romulus’ older sister, who peeked frightened from behind her front door. Lucio, from a mansion, was next to Electra, and Caius, from another mansion, was next to Lystria. Electra and Lucio exchanged glances and nodded. Beyond that, the houses were too far spaced for Petronius to recognize any of the people who came out from the doors. But everyone saw the smoking remains of the house across the arena, everybody saw the glittering Corunucopia overflowing with backpacks and food and weapons, and nobody stepped off their front porch. 

Like a hivemind, they all thought the same thing at the same time. They had spent so long training together, they all knew what they had been told — to survive in the Hunger Games, they needed food, shelter, water, and defense. Their houses had shelter. The Cornucopia had everything else. To get to the Cornucopia meant running down the stairs. There was no other way down except by falling; the pillars seemed to be solid marble and didn’t have any handholds to climb on.

If, by chance, you survived the Cornucopia with your bounty, returning to your house meant running at full speed up five flights of stairs before someone shot an arrow at your back — a challenge even for a group of able-bodied teens who had trained every day for two months. Or you could abandon your house and run into the ruined city, where any amount of horrors could hide.

Suddenly, a great bell rang out around them. In the sky above the Cornucopia appeared a golden 60 — they all knew what it was. It began to count down.

Petronius knew how it worked. They all knew how it worked. Most would go for the bait. Many of them would die. But Petronius had something that the others didn’t. He had smuggled in food; he could survive for a while. He had no weapons, but Caeneus had an aluminum baseball bat that would do for now. 

But for some reason, even though he was pretty sure he could just turn around and go inside, something told him to stay. He soon realized that it was a pair of eyes — Electra’s gaze was on him, watching. And it didn’t take a detective to figure out why. She, and by extension everyone within the Rosemarie Protection Squad, wanted him dead. Even if Petronius was being humble, there was no hiding the fact that he was one of the biggest threats outside of that exclusive rich kids’ club. He’d been a top-ranked wrestler and MMA fighter in high school and was now twice as strong from hard conditioning. Electra knew that, so she wanted to pick him off quickly, and she was counting on him running down those stairs. 

_ Fuck you, Electra,  _ Petronius thought.

The horn sounded. 

Like twin cheetahs, Electra and Lucio bounded down the stairs. To Petronius’ left, so did Caius; Lystria hesitated but then also took off. All around the arena, the tributes raced down towards the Cornucopia, towards the bloodbath. 

Petronius did not. He turned around and slammed the door, locking it tight. Then he looked around the apartment, taking careful note of what the Gamemakers had and hadn’t left for him to use. The sedatives must have been working. He was no longer in a state of panic and he knew exactly what to do. 

“Never thought that my constant desire to go in my house and stay away from people would come in handy,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. 

First, he shoved the couch up over the door to prevent anyone from breaking in. Not that he really expected anyone to this early in the Games, but better safe than sorry. Then, once safe, he went around taking inventory. There were four windows in this apartment, and none of them could be reached from the outside; each led to a sharp drop-off five stories high. The door was the only way in or out. 

The Gamemakers had been careful to remove the knives from the knife block, the first aid kit from the bathroom, and Atla’s handgun from the safe. But they had left Caeneus’ aluminum baseball bat and all of Petronius’ wrestling gear (mouthguard, athletic tape, knee braces, etc.). Dumbass rebels. Petronius knew that this wasn’t actually his apartment; it was a interactive digital reimaging, a hologram that he could touch and interact with. Like the muttations or even the arena itself. It appeared that the rebels had just gone inside his apartment, scanned the place, and replicated it with barely a second thought to “what can be used as an advantage in the Hunger Games, other than the obvious guns, knives, and first aid”. 

Which is how Petronius very quickly got his hands on just about everything he needed to protect himself. He dug in Caeneus’ closet to find the baseball bat and his catcher’s chest protector, which he put on under his jacket. Then he took a batting helmet and removed some of the inner padding, allowing it to fit his head. He filled his school backpack with all the athletic tape he could find, making sure to keep the pack light.

Then (despite knowing that the people watching him on TV now thought he was crazy), he threw a metal weight through his glass shower door, shattering it into a hundred pieces. He selected a piece that was about a foot long and wrapped the duller end in several layers of athletic tape, creating a crude glass dagger with a tape handle. It probably wouldn’t last a battle, but you never knew when you’d need an emergency knife. On that thought, he created a second one from a smaller, wider piece of glass.

He paused in the hallway, his eyes locked on a photo. Then he stopped, took the picture frame down, and carefully removed the photo.

It was about then that the second cannon went off. Then the third. Petronius went to his mothers’ bedroom window, opened it, and leaned out around the corner. The cannons kept firing — five, six. But from Petronius’ poor vantage point, he could see what he already knew. Several imposing figures roamed around the Cornucopia, weapons in hand and dead bodies all around them. The cannons stopped at seven. Including the poor fool who stepped off their front porch early, there were eight dead. 

A drone appeared overhead and began to drop claws, latching on one by one to the bodies and pulling them into the sky. At that point, the figures near the Cornucopia began to sit down. Someone made a fire. Then, clearly secure in their own reign over the supplies, they rested.

But the real question was “for how long”. Petronius pulled his head inside the house and closed the window. There was no doubt that they would begin raiding the houses next, picking off people who cornered themselves in their own shelters. And Electra’s glare told him that she wanted him gone soon. 

He realized that he had been pacing down the hall and stopped right in front of his moms’ bathroom. A memory tugged at his brain — two weeks before the siege on the Capitol broke out, there had been a clearance sale at a closing beauty salon. Camilla had bought eight bottles of nail polish remover for a dollar.

“How many nails do each of us have?” Atla had asked. “Really, love, what do you think we are we going to do with eight bottles of nail polish remover?”

In real time, Petronius smiled grimly. 

“We can do a lot,” Camilla had replied. “You’d be surprised.”


	10. Mercury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Games start heating up, pun intended.
> 
> Content warnings for violence (obviously), explicit language as often used by the Rosemarie Snow Protection Squad, and a homophobic slur that is properly dealt with. Do not worry; I am a homosexual myself. I know what I am doing.

After a few hours’ rest and regrouping, the Rosemarie Snow Protection Squad still hadn’t come up with a real name. 

“Those scrawny middle schoolers had something going for them,” said Claudia as she and her friends suited up. She had been using a small spear before, but ditched it for a large machete. “Like...the Elites? That’s a cool name. And we can take it now, since most of ‘em are dead.”

“Cheesy,” said Electra. She was looking into her reflection in a shiny metal shield, as she used a stick of charcoal to draw a makeshift eyeliner wing. 

Claudia frowned. “Hey, it’s not cheesy — ”

Across the camp, Lucio swung a one-handed axe. “Give us a break, Claud.”

“It’s kinda cheesy,” said Julius. “Like, the off-brand version of the Careers.”

“Oh yeah? Well, let’s hear your genius ideas!” Claudia demanded.

“I…don’t fucking care,” Julius said. He picked up a bow, tested the draw weight, and then slung it and a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. 

“I think we should call ourselves ‘the Killers’,” said Ovidus, nasally and gross as always. He sat in the corner, cleaning a blood-stained knife. “Because we kill.”

“That’s the name of an old band,” said Electra.

“And you all thought ‘Elites’ was cheesy,” Claudia sniffed. 

“Look, it doesn’t matter what we call ourselves,” said Julius. “You wanted to get off your asses and kill that Petronius boy, right?”

“He’s right,” said Electra, stepping away from the shield. “Petronius is our easiest and most important target. We knock him out, there’s virtually nobody else in this arena that we can’t take care of. And he’s just sitting up there in his shitty apartment, waiting for us to corner him.”

“Am I coming with?” asked Rosemarie, speaking up for the first time. She sat inside the Cornucopia, dressed in several pounds of armor that her teammates had convinced her to put on. 

“Fuck no,” said Lucio. “Someone stay and guard her.”

“Not me,” said Claudia.

“Not me,” echoed Electra. 

“No,” said Ovidus.

Everyone looked at Julius. Julius just rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Electra gave him a charming smile. “Thanks, Jul. You’re a real darling.”

“Thanks,” Julius replied. “You’re a real bitch.” Everyone ignored him. 

The rest of the team — Electra, Claudia, Ovidus, and Lucio — set off, climbing up the steps to Petronius’ apartment building. The stairs, they realized, were a great inconvenience, which seemed to have been the rebels’ idea. Incredibly steep, no platforms on which to rest, a challenge even for four able-bodied teens who had spent the last two months doing nothing but physical conditioning. Once they reached the top, they were slightly out of breath and paused. 

“I hate these stairs,” Lucio grumbled, wiping off his shaved head. “That Petronius boy better be in there, I’m in the mood to pound someone into the fucking ground.”

“Let’s find out,” said Claudia. She lifted her fist and pounded on the door. “Hey! Petronius!”

“Oh, like that’s going to work,” Electra sniffed.

“WHAT?” yelled Petronius from inside. Claudia grinned widely.

“It’s just me, Claudia,” she said. “I wanna talk!”

“I DON’T THINK YOU DO,” said Petronius. “ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO COME IN?”

“Yeah!” replied Claudia. “I’m pretty sure!”

There was a scuffling. A large  _ BANG _ sounded, like furniture being moved. Then a  _ CRASH. _

“OKAY...ONE SECOND!” Petronius called. “I’M GETTING A FAN ON! IT’S A LITTLE WARM IN HERE!”

Claudia frowned, as did everyone else. A fan?

Petronius’ voice came back. It was somehow more muffled now.  “HEY! ONE QUESTION!” 

“Yeah…?” asked Claudia, much less confidently.

“IS ROSEMARIE WITH YOU?” 

“No…?”

“GOOD! COME ON IN! IF YOU’RE SO SURE ABOUT IT!”

Then there was a quick pattering of feet, growing fainter until it disappeared. The team exchanged glances. Something wasn’t right. 

“I’ll go in first,” Lucio said. “But I get the honor of bashing in his dumbass gay skull.”

“Excuse me, but gay isn’t an insult,” Claudia said.

“Oops. Sorry. His faggot skull.” Lucio gave her a cruel grin before turning to the door and kicking the handle hard enough to break the handle.

As the door swung open, they were met with a somber, but silent chaos. The TV still fizzled with static, casting the living room and kitchen in an eerie blue glow. The place was a wreck — furniture had been turned over and the kitchen floor was covered in puddles of clear liquid. There was one way out of the living room and kitchen, through an open archway that had been blocked by a crooked, upright couch and what seemed to be a mattress behind it.

But most strange was the unbearable chemical stench that blew towards them. A small fan was propped up on the countertop, blowing the fumes in their faces. “The fuck is that?” Lucio grumbled, gripping his axe.

“Smells like acetone,” said Electra, still not daring to go inside. “Nail polish remover.”

Lucio laughed. “That lil’ fag doing his nails in here?”

At Electra’s side, Claudia’s whole body tensed up. “Say that word one more time,” she snapped. “I dare you.”

He turned around and leered at her. “What? Faggot?”

“Lucio,” Electra said, her voice a clear warning. But Lucio didn’t care. He backed up further into the kitchen, his arms spread wide and his mouth twisted in that devilish leer.

“You getting triggered on me, Claud? Aren’t you tougher than that? Or are you gonna cry like a — ”

His acetone-soaked boot caught on a barely-visible thread of dental floss, pulling it. Startled, Lucio looked down. 

The chain reaction was caught only on camera. When the thread was pulled, it yanked a lighter down from the countertop. But the lighter was attached to two things — a small lead weight that pulled it down and a carefully-wrapped string that pulled taut against the trigger. An inch before the lighter could hit the ground, it stopped and the tension of the string lit the device with a small blue flame.

Electra screamed, “GET BACK!” and barely managed to pull Claudia and Ovidus away from the door. The whole apartment erupted into a terrible light. 

The acetone fumes, spread around the room by the fan, lit instantaneously. The floor itself went up in flames, but it didn’t stop there; the air itself caught fire and singed the backs of their necks as they stumbled down the stairs. An inhuman scream ripped through the air. 

Only Electra was foolish enough to turn over her shoulder as she ran — and all she saw was Lucio. Running from the flames, clawing at his burning body. Stumbling, tripping, and plunging over the edge of the steps. 

A cannon sounded. 

For a minute, Electra, Claudia, and Ovidus crouched on the stairs, trembling. From the Cornucopia, Julius and Rosemarie were both standing and yelling to them, but they didn’t respond; there was something about seeing someone being burned alive that ripped the words from your mouth. There was nothing romantic about it. It wasn’t even cool. It was just awful. None of them really knew how to deal with it.

Finally, Julius and Rosemarie both left the Cornucopia to run up the stairs and meet the three survivors. “What happened? What the fuck was that?” Julius demanded, his bow loaded. Rosemarie huddled close to him, her eyes wide as saucers.

Ovidus was the first to stand. “Lucio is dead,” he said. “Petronius poured acetone on the floor, set up some sort of tripwire, and the whole place went up in flames.”

They all looked back up at the apartment. It was burning like a match now — the whole front had caught on fire and was quickly spreading to the entire block. 

“Was Petronius inside?” Rosemarie whispered. 

“Yes!” Claudia snapped, her voice high and manic. “We talked to him, he’s in there! And it’s not like he can just — climb out a window!”

“So he should be dead soon enough,” said Julius. Sighing, he unloaded his bow and offered his hands to help Claudia and Electra up. Claudia took the help with a strong grip. Electra just stood on her own. “Let’s get back to camp and wait for the cannon. If he tries to escape down the stairs, I’ll shoot him.”

He turned to leave, taking Rosemarie’s hand to help her climb down the stairs in her clunky suit of armor. After a hesitation, the rest of the group followed. 

What they didn’t know was that the cannon would never fire. 

As the group of five returned to their camp, Petronius hung in a rope swing on the other side of the pillar. When he had unraveled his paracord belt, it had given him one hundred fifty feet of cord. It was more than enough for him to fold in half, knot one end into the rope-swing, loop around his metal bedpost, and throw two-thirds of it out the window. And it was strong enough to hold him as he slowly lowered himself down to the ground. 

Once his feet hit solid stone, he pulled the paracord down and shoved it sloppily into his backpack. Then, safe and unharmed, he stole away into the ruined city, his home burning behind him.


	11. The Paralytic

Themis crouched in Sector 9, waiting for Caius to kill her.

This had been the plan all along. Well, at least, Phase One of it. Run from the bloodbath and try to stay alive, find “shelter” at these coordinates of Sector 9 and wait for Caius to bash a rock into her head. She hadn’t seen heads nor tails of Caius since he dove into the Cornucopia to snag a backpack — which she at first thought was stupid of him, but then reasoned that if she failed Phase Three, then he would need to be the backup. And if Phase Two took longer than expected, he might need some way to defend himself. 

Except now, she was back to thinking that it had been a bad idea, because it was a full two hours after they had planned for her to die.

She was huddled under the building she and Caius had agreed upon — the first floor of a ruined parking garage, half-buried in rubble. Themis had spent the last few hours scouting the place and was confident that if another tribute passed by, she could disappear in seconds, but for now she crouched just barely in the shadows at the back of the parking lot. Visible for someone who was looking, like Caius. At least, if that asshole was even still alive. 

Her vantage point allowed her a slice of the red sky, which was quickly darkening. At one point, a single cannon fired, just before a plume of smoke appeared across the slice. When she dared to peek her head out, someone’s apartment block was burning. One of the special kids. Only the special kids lived in apartment blocks because the special kids, unlike the self-proclaimed “special” kids who banded around Rosemarie Snow, were all middle class nobodies. 

After about a half hour, a familiar tune began to play — the old anthem of Panem. Themis was confused until she remembered an interview she had seen on TV while in hiding. This arena had been in the works for the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games, but was abandoned and taken up by the rebels, who made massive changes to the code in almost everything that glorified the Capitol. Except for one thing. The man being interviewed (Gall? Gale? Gale Hawthorne, that was it!) was the master behind the mind games of the arena, and revealed that the evening death count would be untouched. The old anthem would still play. The message, of course, being that the Capitol killed and would kill indiscriminately, district and Capitolite alike.

The faces began to scroll. As another cruel touch, in place of the district number was the victim’s age. Lucio, seventeen. Aelia, sixteen. Tertius Brutus, sixteen. Jovitan, fourteen. Livius, thirteen. Valerius, thirteen. Augusta, thirteen. Horatia, twelve. Titania, eleven. Most of Amadeus’ proud little group had not survived, and it was barely the first day. 

Themis tried not to think about Titania or the other ones. Younger than her, but barely. Instead she tried to think about Lucio — already gone? He’d been a part of that stronger alliance; had something happened? Most likely, something just hadn’t gone right at the bloodbath; it certainly wasn’t unknown for Careers to die early on...but still, Themis had seen Lucio fight, and unless it was by an arrow to the heart, it wasn’t likely for someone to simply overpower him…

A sound snapped her out of her thoughts. The scuff of a boot against pavement. She froze. 

A second later, the dark-haired Caius stepped out of an alley. If Themis hadn’t been scanning for movement, she might not have seen him — the tributes’ uniforms were all dark grey and the lower half of Caius’ light olive face was hidden by a dark scarf, letting him almost melt into the shadows. He wore a backpack and held what looked like a low-powered dart gun. Not exactly a rock, but to her knowledge, he would only slow her down with the stun of the dart, so he’d have to use a rock and bash her head in eventually. 

It was very strange seeing him because on one hand, Themis was relieved that he was alive, so the show could go on. But on the other hand, her pulse quickened, knowing that her cue was up. The curtain was rising. She knew for sure that the cameras were homed in on them, awaiting their next moves. Perhaps rebel commentators were betting on her death. Perhaps the family of the man she’d killed were cheering Caius on.

_ Then let him come,  _ she thought, hiding a smile. She moved as if to hide deeper in the shadows, but purposefully dragged her toe. It scraped against the concrete floor and Caius whirled around.

“Hey!” he shouted. 

Themis froze (like rehearsed). It gave Caius a little time to act surprised, then to gather himself and run towards her. But by this point, there was little acting. Her subconscious had not latched onto the nuance of Phase One and told her to flee. So she did.

She turned and sprinted away from Caius and scrambled out of a ruined hole in the wall. Then she was outside, on a long open street with no cover except ruined storefronts that she would have been scared to hide in even if she didn’t want to die. She leapt over a glitching tile, making sure that Caius could see where she had jumped so he didn’t fall in or get his foot stuck. No need to slow herself down and let him catch up. He was built for speed and agility, tall and lithe, like a gymnast. He would catch up just fine. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Caius also leap over the tile, running with her and aiming with the dart gun. Perfect…

The blast hit her square in the back and she stumbled. But suddenly, she was afraid again. 

As she fell, one thing registered in her mind — it wasn’t a stun. It was a shock. A far cry from what she expected, which was the dull, numb  _ thud  _ of a normal stun dart. This wasn’t it. This was wrong. This was a lance of pain that pierced her lower back and crackled through her body, freezing her in place and sending her to the ground. Pain exploded behind her eyes and in every synthetic joint of her body. 

And then she hit the ground and suddenly there was nothing. 

If it wasn’t for the distinct smell of burning wires, Themis would have thought she was dead. There was no light. No pain. No feeling. She lay on her stomach, unable to move anything but her head and shoulders. She blinked, but her prosthetic eyes showed only darkness. She tried to clench her fists, but her prosthetic hands didn’t obey. And she tried to get to her feet, but she couldn’t feel her prosthetic feet either — every synthetic part of her was fried. 

She heard Caius’ steps as he caught up with her, then stopped. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered. Then Themis felt his hands on her side as he rolled her over onto her back. 

It was an odd time to think about it, but the rebel Gamemakers were probably having a ball with this scene, Themis mused dryly to herself. All she could hope was that Caius wouldn’t give the plan away. 

She tried to move her mouth, but the electric shock seemed to have evaporated every drop of moisture from her tongue. It took a while. “Can’t...move,” she barely managed to croak. “Are you...still gonna kill me?”

“I don’t know!” said Caius wildly. “What the fuck?!”

_ “HEY!” _

Caius gasped. Themis blinked hard again, wishing that she could just force herself to  _ see  _ again, but to no avail. She didn’t recognize the new voice, but for all that mattered, it meant that the last shambles of their plan were now falling away. The feeling welling up in her chest made her want to just lie back and cry.  _ No… _

“Petronius, it’s not what it looks like,” said Caius. So it was Petronius. “She’s injured, I wasn’t trying to — ”

“Oh, yeah, like I’d believe that,” Petronius snapped.

Caius hesitated. Themis knew what he was thinking. He couldn’t just say they were in an alliance — Petronius wouldn’t be the only one he was lying to, and unlike Petronius, the audience had already seen everything that had gone wrong. Themis wouldn’t have any motive to cover for him. The Themis that the audience knew was a scared girl. She had to stay loyal to it or they’d never have any hope of recovering the plan. 

“H…help me,” said Themis weakly.

There was a short period when she wasn’t sure what happened. Boots scuffed against pavement. Then Caius said, “This isn’t over,” and ran off.

A second later, a hand touched Themis’ shoulder. She winced. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” said Petronius. “I’m going to pick you up, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered. There was nothing else she could do. She just closed her eyes even though there was nothing to see, because her eyes would not let her cry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! If this is confusing, that's exactly what I hoped — tell me what you think's going on, I'd love to hear! :)


	12. Fissure

The night passed quietly. At daybreak, the Rosemarie Snow Protection Squad got up reluctantly and got to work.

None of them had slept well the night before. They had debated returning to their houses and sleeping in their own beds, but that left the Cornucopia unguarded, and the spoils of the Cornucopia were too much to divide up and carry up six flights of stairs. So they just carried down as much as they could — pillows, blankets, in Rosemarie’s case they brought down her mattress — and curled up to rest.

Still, few did. The stench of blood and Petronius’ burning house were thick in the air. 

The next morning, they huddled around the fire with breakfast, their armor, and weapons, though nobody was particularly awake. Today was the day they had planned to go out, hunt kids down, and have a great time, but the appeal was wearing off. There was something about seeing your own friend burn to death that put life into context. 

But then their eyes were drawn back again and again to little Rosemarie, wrapped in two blankets to shield against the cold, her soft face smudged with a bit of ash. This was for her. For the Capitol. 

Finally Ovidus broke the silence. 

“I saw that one Cornelius kid shut himself inside his house,” he said. “He’s big, but he’s slow, and he’s stupid. Should be easier.”

Claudia swallowed a bite of her apple. “He and I sparred a couple times, I know how he fights. I’m going.”

“You didn’t sleep at all last night,” said Electra. 

“Neither did you,” said Claudia. She met Electra’s gaze and Electra was the first to break it. But she didn’t respond, just reached into a crate and pulled out a small makeup bag, taken from her home last night. 

“You’re not worried, are you?” asked Julius. It was phrased like a jeer, but Julius didn’t typically jeer; this was a sincere question. 

Electra stood with her bag and turned away. “About what?” she asked calmly. 

“About being in over our heads,” said Julius. 

Electra said nothing, just leaned a shiny shield against a crate, pulled an eyeliner pencil out of her bag, and began to draw a dark line over her eye.

Julius didn’t back down. He stood. “You said Petronius was an exception — ”

“Is,” said Rosemarie quietly. 

“Petronius is an exception. Electra, when we signed up for this thing, that’s what you said, that we really only need to worry about him and that he wasn’t even that bad. Not that bad? He survived a fucking firebomb and managed to kill someone within seconds of stepping in the house.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Electra murmured.

“I’m just saying,” said Julius, “that I don’t think charging headfirst into people’s houses is the best idea anymore. If Petronius ‘isn’t that bad’, I’m not sure I’m jazzed to see what the rest of your clearly misjudged enemies have in store for us.”

“Hey, back off, Jul,” Claudia said. “You’re just  _ reaching _ for excuses to blame El so you don’t seem like such a coward!”

“I am not a coward!” Julius roared, whirling on her. She barely flinched.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Then why don’t you come with me? Take out Cornelius and show me how brave you are?”

Julius opened his mouth but then snapped it shut. ”I will not,” he finally said. “With Lucio gone, I’m the last line of muscle between the arena and Rosemarie. From now on, I stay with her.”

“No,” said Electra. 

Everyone turned to her. She stood up and turned. For the first time since being taken from her home, she faced them with her dark circles covered in powder and with careful eyeliner wings on her eyelids. Truly confident, for the first time since being stolen from her home.

“Lucio’s death was tragic,” she said. “But it will not change my plans.”

“Plans?” Julius retorted. “What plans? Spend every life we have in the first few days of the Games? Face it, Electra, you know the stats — most of these kids are gonna die from thirst or hunger before we have a chance to get them, we should just wait them out and pick off the rest when they’re weak — ”

“Rosemarie!” Electra snapped, cutting Julius off. 

Rosemarie sat up, despite the blankets and armor. “Um...yes?”

“Rosie dear, who did you elect to be in charge?” asked Electra. “Me or Julius?”

The girl hesitated. “You.”

Electra smiled. “That’s right. So, if you entrusted me to be in charge, who will you entrust to decide which soldier does which job? Me or Julius?”

“You.”

“Great! Glad we settled this.” Electra clapped her hands and then turned on Julius, despite the fact that he towered over her. She met his eyes with a pleased, devilish smile. 

“You, Julius, will be heading out this morning with Claudia and Ovidus,” she said. “That is an order, whether you like it or not.”

Julius’ red eyes narrowed. Electra never flinched. She knew how Julius ticked — he was predictable, everything he did was predictable, even his modified eye color. Meant to imitate the red of hot coals. Cute. 

“Fine,” was all he said, but everything said that he was not fine. He was furious. But when he turned around, Claudia and Ovidus were glaring at him, so he turned his eyes downward. 

A tiny smile pricked at Electra’s lips. 

-

After the other three had gone, Electra turned to Rosemarie, sat next to her on the mattress, and sighed. 

“Sleep well?” Electra asked. 

“Not really,” replied Rosemarie. “I was kinda scared. I’ve never slept outside before.”

“If you want, you can sleep in your home while we guard the stairs.”

“N…no thanks.”

Rosemarie shifted her hands around her mug of tea. They had been lucky enough to find a small box of green tea bags but reserved them for Rosemarie for her breakfast. She appreciated the offer, but tea was a rare luxury in the Games; she could only remember a few tributes ever getting them as special rewards from sponsors or making it on their own to soothe a malady. She wasn’t sick, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t popular with the rebel sponsor crowd.

“Electra?” she said finally. “Do you ever wonder if you guys…giving me special treatment and all…is kind of backwards?”

Electra turned sharply. “What do you mean?”

Rosemarie fiddled with the string of her tea bag and sighed. “You want me to…to survive,” she said. She had to avoid saying the M-word where all the rebels could hear and record her, but it was no mystery to Panem that the tributes of these Games wanted to keep President Snow’s granddaughter alive. She inhaled deeply.

“You want me to survive these Games because I’m oh-so-special, but...if I never get my hands dirty, isn’t that just kind of weird? A flawless victor is one thing, we’ve had those before, but there’s never been a victor who never had to fight or run or anything…”

“If you’re asking if you can go out there,” Electra said, “my answer is still no. I think you’ll find that not even Julius will disagree with that.”

Rosemarie looked down again and went quiet. Electra seemed to sense the hostility and touched her shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” said Electra. “But you’re just a kid.”

“Well, you’re just a teenager,” Rosemarie replied, deadpan.

Electra blinked, then scowled. “Well, there’s a big difference between almost nineteen and barely twelve. Trust me.”

She let out a sigh and sat back, leaning against a crate. Then she closed her eyes.

“I know I’m not the smartest person in this arena,” she admitted. “I’m not the biggest or the fastest...I’m not even the oldest. Petronius turns nineteen in a few days, if I recall. Those are all things I can’t use to my advantage. But — ” Electra turned and met Rosemarie’s gaze. “ — I do have one thing. I’m the only one here with a plan. I’m the only one brave enough to think that far in advance and adjust accordingly. That’s something that I’m not sure you’re old enough to understand.”

“I do understand!” Rosemarie burst. “You’ve _ told  _ me your plan, I know, you and the others want to protect me, and that’s great, but — ”

“They don’t all want to protect you, Rosie.”

Rosemarie faltered. Her soft, grey-blue eyes widened. “What?”

Electra didn’t break her gaze. “I told you,” she said. “I’m the only one here who understands what you and I are trying to do. Lucio...he understood, too, and if he had survived, I would have let him stay behind to hear what I am about to tell you. If I’m going to protect you — if — if we’re going to protect you, we have to die. Once there is nothing left in this arena that can harm you, we each have to kill ourselves.”

The younger girl stayed silent. She knew that. There was nothing she could do about it — if Electra and Rosemarie were the last two tributes alive, even if Rosemarie begged at Electra’s feet for her not to kill herself, Electra would do it anyway.

“But not all of us will,” said Electra, standing. 

“Huh?”

Electra walked away, picking up a sword. She picked up a stone and began to sharpen it. “Julius,” she began, “is beginning to doubt. You saw him. He values his own life quite highly, you know. What do you think would happen if you and Julius were the last two left in the arena? Or what if all five of our group survived to the end, last five alive, do you think he would stick to the plan that long?”

Rosemarie opened her mouth but then hesitated. She knew. They both knew. 

“That’s right,” said Electra. “Ovidus, too. Sometimes I’m afraid he’ll slit all of our throats in the night, just because he got the whim. So I’m not waiting for them to make it to the final few. If we keep sending them out, eventually, nature and other tributes will take care of them, lessening the chance that they’ll…that they’ll turn on us.”

Still Rosemarie said nothing. She did not know how to think about that. She supposed it would be one of those things that came back to haunt her as she lay under the red night skies. 

“I still don’t see what that has to do with keeping me penned up here,” she mumbled. “I wanna do something. I wanna help.”

She knew it was dangerous to say that. They had an audience. The rebels knew Rosemarie Snow was under high security, even inside the arena. Everyone wanted her dead except these few allies of hers, and every person in the audience would be wondering why those allies didn’t want her dead as well. 

Electra acted just as she had planned. She knelt and hugged Rosemarie tight. “I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered. It was not a lie. “I already had to lose Lucio, I can’t...I don’t think I could stand it if I knew you wouldn’t make it out.” 

Above them, a cannon fired — Cornelius was dead. Their first easy kill. Electra bit her lip. She pulled back, holding both of Rosemarie’s shoulders. Her electric blue eyes met Rosemarie’s soft grey ones.

“I’m getting you out of here, Rosie,” she said. “Even if it means sending our friends to their deaths.”


	13. The Reason You're Here

_Eight Hours Before. The Previous Night._

As darkness fell, that first night in the arena, Petronius carried Themis’ broken body to the best shelter he could find, an abandoned salon with dusty but comfortable chairs. After setting Themis down in a chair, Petronius pulled the threadbare curtains across the windows.

Once they were hidden from all eyes except the cameras, Petronius turned back to Themis and took a good, long look.

It was bad. Burn scars ran up and down the girl’s forearms and her pants were singed as if something underneath had caught fire. Her eyes were there, but oddly blackened, and she kept blinking over and over even though it was apparent that she couldn’t see.

Now Petronius understood — Themis had prosthetics. Physical handicaps were rare in the Capitol, but not unheard of. Some flaunted their disability, wearing decorative prosthetics dripping with jewels and gold. Others hid their handicaps with discreet, lifelike silicone prosthetics, so carefully crafted as to be indistinguishable from their natural body parts. It appeared that Themis was the latter.

She was breathing hard and trembling, clearly overwhelmed. And probably thirsty, too. She didn’t have a pack or anything, so she might not have eaten or drank since before the Games. Petronius hadn’t either, despite the food he’d smuggled in, and he was certainly feeling the effects. But he decided that he didn’t mind as much.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

After a hesitation, she nodded. He set his backpack down and pulled out his smuggled juice box. “Here,” he said, opening it and sticking the straw in. “It’s juice. Smuggled it from the breakfast table.”

He held it up to her lips and she sipped. She tried to move her arms to hold it, but her movements were clumsy and uncoordinated. Her fingers wouldn’t move and remained bunched up in fists. So she just gave up.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Petronius just nodded — then flushed in embarrassment, realizing that Themis couldn’t see it. “Oh. Uh...yeah. No problem.” Crinoline was probably watching right now and rolling her eyes. Or maybe she was asleep...a lot of time had passed since this morning, and they had been up awfully late last night, so she was probably quite tired.  Petronius realized that he was quite distracted now and turned back to Themis.

“What happened?” he asked.

Themis hesitated. “I was hiding,” she finally said. “And then Caius saw me, so I ran. He pulled out a gun, but I thought it would just stun me, and then he’d kill me by hand...you know, like usual,” she added grimly. “But then it did this. I guess he was too surprised to actually kill me.”

“Oh,” said Petronius. He stared at the mess. “So…what’s ‘this’? Are your, um, arms and legs broken?”

“And eyes?”

“And eyes, yeah.”

“I suppose so.” She closed her eyes and lay her head back against the chairs. “I guess there’s no secrets now. Almost half of my body is robotic. Both of my legs up to about mid-thigh, both arms including part of my shoulders, my eyes, and some of my spine, skull, and ribs.”

“So what did the stun do to them?”

“It wasn’t a stun. It was a shock. I’ve been stunned before — it never did that. So I’m guessing Caius found some sort of high-powered electric blaster, which sent a power surge through my spine and did this.”

She tried to open her fists again, but her fingers remained dead. Her elbow bent slightly but that was it. “I think I’m regaining some control in my legs and arms,” she said, a note of hope in her voice. Then she sighed. “Though I kind of expected that. My legs didn’t get it bad. And everything down to my wrist has built-in surge protectors and emergency recharge protocol. But my hands and fingers are just so delicate, there’s a lot of custom wiring; wouldn’t be surprised if some of those filaments just...burnt up.”

Her voice turned sad again and trembled, as if she was about to cry, but no tears came from her eyes. Petronius suddenly wondered if she even had the ability to cry. The knowledge that her eyes were cybernetics certainly explained why she seldom blinked; her eyes didn’t dry out. “What about your eyes?” Petronius asked. “Are they, I don’t know, coming back? Can you see anything at all?”

She shook her head. “N...no. I’m not even getting error messages.”

They both went very quiet. Petronius wondered if she was thinking the same thing that he was — all of those times that Hunger Games tributes went blind, by injury or poisonous gas or just being visually impaired before. Blindness was a death sentence in the arena.

Petronius looked at the girl. She was trembling, her dead eyes unfocused but her head tilted up. She rolled her head back and forth, as if seeking something — _anything_ — in the darkness. He touched the back of her hand and received no response. Then he touched her shoulder. She winced.

“Sorry,” he said. “Does that hurt?”

“Were you trying to make it hurt?” she asked, puzzled. “It didn’t work.”

“What — no! I just wanted to...you know, comfort you,” said Petronius. “You know, like, touching your shoulder to make you feel less alone?”

She was silent. “No,” she finally said. “Being alone is not hard. I have endured it before.”

A strange weight sank in Petronius’ stomach. There was something unnatural in how calmly Themis said that, something much too jaded for a fourteen-year-old. She reminded him so much of Caeneus that it hurt. He remembered how hard Caeneus cried when he came out to Atla and Camilla — even when raised by two lesbian moms and a bisexual older brother, Caeneus was still convinced that his own family wouldn’t love him anymore. That he’d just have to endure a lonely life forever. It broke Petronius’ heart.

“It’s not something you have to _endure,”_ he said. “You just…find someone that you love, and then you’re not alone anymore.”

A scowl flickered across Themis’ face. “Love is for children,” she said. “It doesn’t exist. It’s a combination of chemical signals in our brain.”

He stared at her. He couldn’t imagine what kind of home she grew up in to be taught that love didn’t _exist_. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t need it,” he replied.

“Maybe it just means that you’re an ignorant fool.”

“I’m okay with that,” said Petronius. “Ignorance feels really, really good.”

He took the salon chair next to her and settled down in it, his baseball bat resting in his lap. The chair was almost as comfortable as his own bed would have been, at least, before he burned it and the rest of his apartment.

“Get some rest,” he told Themis. “I’ll take first watch. Let me know if you need anything from my pack.”

She was silent. He wondered if she was orchestrating his quick, silent death right now — if she was smart, that’s what she would do. Take the only advantage she had in this deathtrap of an arena and slice the neck of someone whose guard was down. But if that’s how he went, he didn’t think he minded that much. He would rather die with good intentions, trying to help someone, than fighting for himself.

It sounded so shallow when he thought of it. Like he was trying to get attention by acting like a benevolent soul. But it wasn’t seeking attention. That’s just how he was.

He looked up at the tattered ceiling, its bright colors rotted with age. The metal ceiling supports were visible from underneath and sagged threateningly, but also revealed something else — a small round eye, a camera, nestled in the framework. He wondered what the audience was thinking now. What the Gamemakers were thinking now. Besides the burning house, it had been quiet tonight, like it normally was the first night of the Games.

But this wasn’t a normal Games. The people behind that camera weren’t here for a show; they were here for twenty-three executions. And here Petronius was, protecting and helping the least favorite tribute in the Games, one who would most certainly never walk out alive. Would they understand? Or would they write him off, target him, try to take both him and Themis out before they got too close to victory? What were they thinking? What was Crinoline thinking? What was his —

He hesitated, cutting off the thought. Then he reached down to his backpack and set it in his lap, carefully opening the front pocket. Inside was every family photo he could jam into his bag before Lucio set off the tripwire, some of the photos folded awkwardly to make room for more of them, but all intact. Atla and Camilla’s wedding. The day they adopted Petronius. The day they adopted Caeneus. Holiday pictures, wrestling pictures, theatre pictures, makeover pictures. It wasn’t like these pictures were special — they were copies, holograms created by the rebels to make Petronius long for home. It was working. Petronius had not cried for his family in weeks, but now, the longing was back in full force.

 _It was for the best,_ he told himself. _If it wasn’t me, it would be Caeneus. There was nothing we could do about it, and there’s nothing I can do now except survive._ His eyes prickled and he blinked hard.

Then he looked to Themis. Her burnt eyes were closed, perhaps from habit. But her breathing was even and beginning to slow, and for the first time since he had known her, her face was relaxed in the serenity of rest.

Maybe — just maybe — this was where he was supposed to be.

-

A cannon fired and Petronius sat bolt upright. Dusty morning light filtered through the shop curtains. He was in the salon chair still, with Themis awake and anxious next to him.

He reached automatically for the glass dagger at his belt, then waited. There was no other sound from the world around him, just the haunting echoes of the cannon. A tribute dead. After a few minutes, Petronius whispered, “Who do you think it was?”

“I think we should wonder _where_ it was,” said Themis gravely.

Petronius nodded and they both went still, listening close. After a few more minutes, they heard nothing, so they relaxed.

“Must’ve been further off,” he said. Ten dead now. “Do you want to stay here?”

“Do you have more juice?”

“No. I have an apple and some eggs, but I think we should save them.” He was really hungry now, but he knew he’d be hungrier later. “We need to start looking for water. Can you move?”

Themis clumsily lifted her legs, bent them at the knee, and let them flop back down. “A little.” She frowned and tried to move her arm. The shoulder and elbow joints moved stiffly, but her wrist barely budged and her fingers were still locked in a fist. “I think I need to do some work on...on everything before I can stand.”

“Okay,” said Petronius. “Take your time. If you need any help, just ask.”

“I don’t need help,” she said stiffly.

“Okay,” he said again.

Five minutes later, Petronius was helping her. As hard as Themis tried, she could not unclench her fingers, but she needed to use her fingers in order to take off her shoes, roll up her pant legs, remove the casing on her prosthetics to reveal the internal hardware, et cetera, and she still had no response from her eyes but she needed to see in order to do her work… So Petronius, despite not knowing anything about computer hardware, did it. He removed the casing, told Themis what he saw, and she instructed him on what wires to pull and which tiny buttons to press. It was kind of gross at first, especially since the prosthetics had a _really realistic_ external casing that felt like skin, under which were accurately-shaped titanium bones and soft silicone with an impossibly complex network of hair-thin filaments.

Her legs were the easy part. Nothing was burnt or damaged. The units just needed a simple restart, recalibration, and a modification to the pressure sensors on the soles of her feet. At least, that’s what Themis said. After Themis was happy, Petronius moved on to her arms.

If he thought that her prosthetic legs were a technological work of art, her arms were insane.  Even the silicone paddings meant to emulate muscle and fat were packed with wires. Whereas Themis’ legs had opened from two hatches apiece, her arms opened from her shoulders, biceps, outside of her forearms, and back of her hands. Petronius noted that the wires inside followed the patterns of the delicate silver carvings on her forearms and hands, but said nothing about them.

“What do you see?” Themis asked as he looked through her forearm hatches.

“Wires,” said Petronius. He looked closer, angling them for better light. The electricity did not work in this building so the attempt was futile. “Um...a lot of these wires don’t look so hot. Some of the red-coated copper ones look burnt.”

A grimace passed over her face. “I was afraid of that. Look at my hands.”

He did so and opened the hatch. Then his eyes widened. “Ow,” he said.

“What?”

“Everything’s black. Except the blue-coated filaments.”

They both went quiet. Petronius didn’t have to be a technician to know that this wasn’t good.

“Themis?” he said after a while. “What do you want me to do?”

She hung her head. “Close the hatches,” she said, her voice trembling. “You can’t do anything with burnt wires.”

“I’m sorry,” said Petronius.

“It’s okay,” she replied, even though they both knew it wasn’t.

“Do you want me to look at your eyes?”

“I need an advanced surgical procedure to remove them.”

“Oh. So no, then.”

“No.”

It went quiet once again. After a while, Petronius stood up and said, “I’m going to go out. I need to find a source of water.”

“Okay,” said Themis. “Do you want me to come with?”

He frowned. The trainers always said that having an ally with you was always better than going out alone, especially in the early stages of the Games, but presumably none of them had considered that the ally might be a crippled blind cyborg.

“I would rather you don’t,” he said, then added, “No offense, really.”

“None taken,” she replied. “Do...um...do you have another weapon? Just in case something happens?”

“Oh! Oh, of course, yeah.” He reached down to his belt (he had rewoven the unraveled paracord last night out of boredom) and touched the handle of his homemade glass knife, then reconsidered. A knife probably wasn’t the best thing to give a blind girl. He gave her the baseball bat instead, prying open her dead prosthetic fingers to put the bat inside it. “You can figure out how to use this,” he said. “Nothing nuanced about it, no technique needed, just swing. Screaming while swinging might help.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“Here’s a hard-boiled egg, too.” He placed the second egg in her lap, leaving the first in his pocket. “In case you get hungry. Don’t know how good it is after, you know, not being refrigerated, but it’s all I got.”

Then he picked up his bag, put on his baseball helmet, and left. The morning was cold and fresh, and as he stepped outside he breathed deeply in. The sky was still red like a storm, but the constant thunder of before was gone. He looked up at the ruins around him and tried on a smile.

He had survived the first night and he had a friend. “Not bad,” he said to himself. “Not bad at all.”


	14. Tin Foil Hats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I write this (September 20 — wow, I’m writing so far in advance!) my Narratives of Human Potential class is watching the Hunger Games film and analyzing it in light of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and Yuval Noah Harari’s Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. College is so fuckin lit.

Things were not good. Not good at all.

Crinoline had not expected to be woken up by three fully-armed rebel guards, nor did she expect them to handcuff her before she could change out of her nightclothes. She hadn’t slept well the night before — during the day, after flying back to the Capitol in a hovercraft, she hadn’t had time to watch the opening moments of the Games. Nor did she want to. While some of the other guards watched the Games on a portable tablet, Crinoline sat at the back of the hovercraft and listened to music through a pair of noise-canceling headphones. She wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to watch, so the others respected her choice.

As soon as the hovercraft touched down in the Capitol again, Crinoline asked who had died and was relieved to find that Petronius was not among them. Still anxious but more assured, Crinoline returned to her room and office in the Training Center to pack. Then the day just flew by. After moving out, she returned to the Capitol apartment where her family had settled down, greeted her mother and siblings at last, avoided the living room where the Games were being shown, and retired to her bedroom where she left her suitcases in a corner to unpack later. She did not get to watch the Games recap until later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, and after doing so she found that she could not sleep. 

Around five in the morning, her body finally gave into fatigue. But only, three hours later, for it to be woken again by three soldiers.

“Come with us,” said one of them. He was the one that the tributes called the Lone Gamemaker, someone that Crinoline had fought alongside during the siege of the Capitol. A friend.

“Baz, what the hell,” Crinoline groaned, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

The other two soldiers helped her up and grabbed her arms, locking them together with cuffs. Then they began to pat her down, presumably checking for weapons. Baz just turned away, his face solemn. “I can’t explain. But I’m sorry,” he said.

A knot clenched in her stomach. “Did something happen? With the Games?”  _ With Petronius? _

The other soldiers began walking her out the door. “Petronius is fine,” said Baz, as if reading her mind. Then he gave her a look. “More than fine, actually.”

Crinoline’s heart sank. She had seen Petronius give some of his smuggled juice to Themis, that wasn’t news. But this wasn’t about that...was it? Or maybe they found out about the sedative? It wasn’t  _ forbidden.  _ Nothing in the traditional Games rules said that a guard couldn’t do that. Crinoline knew — she had checked, and the rebels were breaking pretty much all of the traditional Games rules anyway, so it shouldn’t be such a big deal. It...it wasn’t, right?

But no matter what she asked, Baz wouldn’t answer her. Just stayed silent. So she saved her breath and fell silent as they led her to a car outside and drove her down the Capitol streets. It was raining in tremendous sheets and the sky was dark from storm clouds, making it difficult to tell what time it was. The drive itself was slow from both the rain and the construction happening in the Capitol, as war-torn streets were slowly rebuilt. Things were improving. But the progress was just as slow as the drive, as the new government struggled in funding the projects.

In time, they made it to a small building in the most secure part of the Capitol, just down the block from the Training Center towers. Once inside, Crinoline realized what it was. The place looked as if it might have once been sleek and beautiful, but just like in the Training Center, every surface was plastered with vandalism and propaganda posters. 

She stood in the control room of the Hunger Games, looking out at the small team of rebel Gamemakers.

Unlike Capitol Gamemakers, the rebel technicians didn’t seem altogether obsessed with what they were doing. It seemed to be largely rebels from District 3, technology. Most of them wore just regular clothes and a good number of them were chatting with each other, eating fast food breakfasts, or milling around the room. For now, the hologram of the arena remained still and nothing interesting was happening on the arena cameras. Crinoline caught one glimpse of a familiar head of rose-gold hair before her attention snapped back to the control room.

By now, most of the Gamemakers were staring at her, but that wasn’t what she was worried about. What made her worry was the door opening across the room, the small entourage of more rebel guards, and the sudden fear that she did something really, really bad. President Alma Coin and Head Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee stepped out. 

Crinoline’s first instinct was to snap into a salute, but that was hard with handcuffs. So she just stared. “Good morning,” said Coin with a dry smile. “Captain Baz, did you search her?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Baz.

“No listening devices?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” Coin nodded and came up to Crinoline, scanning her up and down. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Crinoline Hallenbach, ma’am,” said Crinoline quietly. “District 8, advisor to Commander Paylor, head of covert operations, sergeant in the 2nd division during the siege of the Capitol.”

“I understand that you acted as a guard for the tributes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“For Petronius Lyre.”

She hesitated. “Yes ma’am.”

Coin inclined her chin. Then she turned away, looking at the camera monitors. On one, Crinoline caught the familiar head of golden hair again. Petronius had left his shelter. He was up and about, one hand gripping his longer glass dagger. He crouched in an alley, frozen in time, until suddenly he stood and slipped across the street. Then he found another alley and crouched there. Not exactly a master of stealth. Unseen moving had never been his strong suit, but according to the map he was far enough away from any real threat that he was safe for now. 

“Alma,” said Plutarch quietly. “We should step out.”

“Right, yes,” Coin replied airily. Then she turned and began to walk back in the direction she came. “This way, Crinoline.”

Crinoline had no choice but to follow. As she passed through the door, the cold metal under her bare feet turned to a plush carpet. Coin, Plutarch, and the guards led her down a hallway to a luxurious little lounge, which seemed to be relatively well-preserved from vandalism. The guards stepped back. Crinoline was directed to sit alone on an uncomfortably cushy couch, while Coin and Plutarch sat across from her in stiff chairs. The room was free of screens or windows, giving Crinoline the impression of an interrogation room. 

“Is this an interrogation?” she asked.

“You could call it that,” said Plutarch. Coin didn’t disagree. At least they were being honest. 

“I want legal counsel,” said Crinoline. “I don’t want to be prosecuted for breaking a law that was just made yesterday.”

They both looked shocked at that. “Do you have a lawyer?” asked Coin. 

“Is there one available?” Crinoline replied. “We just dismantled an entire country’s justice system and systematically imprisoned every licensed attorney we could find. I’d love to know how many fully educated, anti-Capitol public defenders are left to help me.”

Coin’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, sensing the sarcasm. Crinoline did not break her gaze. She might have been uneducated, but she wasn’t stupid. She had learned enough about the justice system from recent news to figure certain things out — in the absence of a system, no matter how shitty that system had been, anything could be called legal or illegal with the right spin.

“Until I get a lawyer, I invoke my right to remain silent,” said Crinoline. 

Coin and Plutarch shared a glance. Then Plutarch gave a cryptic, slow nod and Coin sighed. “Fine,” she said. “Stay silent.”

It was a challenge now. Crinoline forced herself to keep her face blank and emotionless.  _ Indifference,  _ she told herself.  _ They can use any response against you.  _ Actually, indifference wasn’t actually that hard, considering she was still just that tired. 

“We’ve arrested you for suspected involvement in a plot to break certain Capitolite tributes out of the arena,” said Coin. “Among the original suspects are Themis Gossamer, Caius Ivory, and Petronius Lyre.”

On second thought, maybe this would be kind of hard.


	15. The Diamond Chandelier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is lowkey a pointless dialogue chapter. However, I really wanted to examine more of Capitol culture and how it affects these kids. Take it or leave it, babes.

It was midday by the time the Rosemarie Protection Squad (name still pending) had completed their search of Cornelius’ house. 

Cornelius had been an easy kill, easier than even the pickings at the Cornucopia. The doors had been bolted shut and there seemed to be furniture piled up in front of it, so Ovidus scaled the wall around to the nearest window, climbed inside, and found Cornelius sleeping in his bed. For “the fun of it”, Ovidus actually woke Cornelius up and haunted him around the house by hiding, following behind him, and finally, when Ovidus got bored with the game, just sneaking up to Cornelius and slicing his throat with a knife. 

After Ovidus removed the furniture from the door and let the others in, he told them about the game and received a consensus from both Claudia and Julius.

“That’s fucked up, dude,” said Claudia.

“Is there really something so hard about letting him pass away in his sleep?” Julius demanded. “Did you really have to torment him, too?”

“You people just don’t know how to have fun,” said Ovidus. 

“You’re sick,” Claudia told him. “Seriously.”

Ovidus just shrugged it off, unbothered. Then he said, “C’mon. Let’s look around; maybe he’s got something useful lying around.”

So they did. Cornelius, the sixth son of an advisor to President Snow, had an understandably large and extravagant house. The place was littered with fun trinkets, luxuries, and technology that didn’t work anymore. There wasn’t actually anything useful, at least, nothing that the Cornucopia didn’t offer better alternatives to. But they still made out with some makeup, fashion accessories, and a mini diamond chandelier that Claudia stole just because she “felt like being meta”. 

When they brought everything back, Electra actually seemed in a rather good mood. “I like that. Nice touch,” she said, watching Claudia haul the sixty-pound chandelier into the Cornucopia. 

“I know!” Claudia grinned. “I always thought the Games aesthetic lacked a little glitter. Julius, help me hang it from the ceiling, wouldja?”

Chuckling, Julius went over to help her. “Maybe it’ll make it feel more like home.”

“Maybe,” Electra agreed. She had added her signature glittery blue lipstick to her face of makeup and had developed a habit of looking back at her shiny shield to admire her work. 

“I can bring down a mini table and we can have that fancy dinner date you promised me,” Claudia said, hoisting the chandelier above her head. 

Julius, the tallest of the team, stood on a crate and began fastening it to the Cornucopia ceiling with a hook. “Who? Me?”

Claudia snorted. “I was talking to Electra.”

“Except that I’m too old for you,” Electra added. 

“I’m sixteen,” Claudia said.

Electra rolled her eyes. “Big difference between eighteen and sixteen, hun. You’ll learn when you’re my age.”

“Psh. Yeah right.” Sarcasm dripped from Claudia’s words. 

“I’m sixteen, too,” Julius joked. “You could date me.”

“I could also surgically remove your balls with a knife,” said Claudia. Shifting her grip on the heavy chandelier, she moved it to just the right place that allowed Julius to fasten it securely. They both let go and stood back, wiping their foreheads and admiring the way the synthetic diamonds caught the orange midday light. 

“Wouldn’t date you anyway,” said Julius.

Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Take it back or I bite you.”

“Oh, it’s not like that. You’re real pretty. But I’m, like, super asexual.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“Violence aside...we’re good at interior decorating.”

“Fuck yeah we are,” Claudia grinned. She punched Julius’ shoulder. He punched her back and then they returned outside to sit with the others. “So what’s our next move, team?”

“We eat lunch,” said Rosemarie matter-of-factly. She had a tray of sandwiches on her lap and was carefully adding meat and cheese to each one before passing them out.

“We should get back to hunting afterwards,” said Ovidus, using his freshly-sharpened knife to slice his sandwich into quarters. “Pretty sure Callia’s in her house. Maybe also Sabina, but I could swear I saw her run. Petronius is still alive, but his house is in pieces, so we have to assume that he unraveled his paracord belt and escaped out a window — ”

“Seriously, can’t we just enjoy lunch?” asked Rosemarie.

“No, he has the right idea,” said Electra. “Now’s a good time to discuss. Obviously, Callia would be our easiest kill — ”

“I’m  _ eating!” _ Rosemarie protested. “I don’t want to talk about killing people while I’m enjoying a meal, is that really too much to ask?”

For once, Electra seemed struck speechless. Everyone stared at Rosemarie and she began to feel quite uncomfortable. 

“Well, I’m just saying,” she murmured, “it’s kinda gross…”

“You’ve got a point,” said Julius. “I don’t want to talk about killing either. Let’s just eat, alright?”

The rest of them slowly and reluctantly grumbled assent. “So,” Electra said after a long while, “what else did you guys get from Cornelius’ house?” She glanced at Rosemarie to see if this classified as “talking about killing”, but Rosemarie just inclined her chin. 

“I unscrewed all the lightbulbs,” said Claudia. 

“Why?” Rosemarie asked. 

Claudia shrugged. “Dunno. Always wanted to go into someone’s house and unscrew all the lightbulbs.”

“Oddly specific urge,” Ovidus said. 

“Like, I know nobody lives there, but it’s just kinda funny, thinking maybe, someone’s gonna come home and try to turn on the lights and they’re not gonna work. That’s fuckin’ hilarious. Also, I moved all the sharp-edged furniture two inches to the left. Just enough not to notice but also just enough to  bump into now and again.”

“A true god of mischief,” Julius said sarcastically. Claudia didn’t seem to notice any of the sarcasm, however. 

“Thank you!”

“Julius and I got makeup and jewelry,” said Ovidus. “Also Cornelius’ belt, in case we need any more paracord.”

“All good things,” said Electra. “Let’s see ‘em.”

Finishing one quarter of his sandwich, Ovidus opened his backpack and brought out the spoils. Jewel-toned eyeshadow palettes, six tubes of lipstick in varying colors, eyeliners, sticky rhinestones, a whole variety of fake lashes, moisturizers, and foundations in mostly pink or white tones because Cornelius and the rest of his family had been natural platinum blondes. A whole handful of nail polish. 

“Finally,” said Julius, grabbing a pot of moisturizer, eyeliner, an eyeshadow palette, and some red nail polish. “Anyone got eye primer?”

“I saw some, but it was real shitty, so I left it,” said Ovidus. 

Electra gave him a look. “Are you seriously gonna tell us that you know eye primers?”

Ovidus returned the look. “Are you going to tell me that you don’t think I wear primer?”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. You barely wash your hair every day, I don’t expect you to take care of your skin. Anyway, if anyone wants it, I have a little tube that I got from my house.”

“Fuck yeah,” said Julius. 

While the older kids scrambled at the makeup, Rosemarie just sat and watched for a while. She glanced over to Claudia, who didn’t seem interested in the stuff. “Claudia, don’t you wear makeup?” Rosemarie asked. 

Claudia sniffed. “I don’t support a societal model that tells kids your age that their faces are wrong.”

“What?”

“I hate makeup culture,” she explained. “Makeup should be a choice, not an obligation. Makeup culture dresses itself up in fancy colors and jewels and says that’s a choice, that’s your freedom of expression, but what’s under the colors? Six layers of foundation, contour, and plastic surgery, all trying to achieve the ideal of the same perfect face.”

Rosemarie looked down. “I never thought of it that way,” she admitted. “But...why is that bad? That’s still someone’s choice, I know a lot of people who don’t wear foundation and contour.”

“But you know more people who  _ do  _ wear foundation and contour,” said Claudia. “Look — if this culture of makeup being a necessity was such a good thing, you’d think the districts would be miserable, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Wrong. The suicide rate of the districts —  _ all  _ of them, on average — is about one third of the annual suicide rate in the Capitol. We’re killing ourselves three times faster than district hobos who have no makeup at all. And get this. Some of the leading motivations for suicide attempts, according to Capitolite survivors, are feelings of inadequacy, worthlessness, or unattractiveness.”

Rosemarie was quiet. “So…makeup...causes you to feel suicidal?”

Claudia shook her head. “No, not exactly, but…when you’re told from birth that your face isn’t good enough, you’re always going to try to improve it. That poor self-image  _ can  _ lead to mental health problems. It’s a risk factor, not a cause.”

“Oh.” 

Rosemarie and Claudia both went quiet for a while. Claudia seemed to sense that she had been talking a lot, so she just looked at Rosemarie and waited to hear what she had to say, but Rosemarie didn’t offer a response. She wasn’t sure what her opinions were now — she supposed she would just keep thinking about it. 

“I mean, I’m not blaming them,” Claudia added after a while, gesturing to the others. 

They all were squinting into compact mirrors or polished silver shields, carefully applying their makeup of choice. Electra had chosen a foundation shade she liked and suddenly, all her pimples and freckles were gone. It looked strange and alien after getting used to her natural face. 

“Putting makeup on, I guess, it’s their way of coping with the fact that we’re all going to die in a few days. Makes them feel like something’s still normal.”

“Like you stealing the chandelier,” said Rosemarie. “That’s your way of feeling normal.”

Claudia laughed. “I guess you could say that.”

“You just don’t do makeup because of a moral principle.”

“Yup.”

“Oh.”

“Plus I’m gay.”

“Okay...the rest I got, but what does being gay have to do with makeup?”

At that, Claudia grinned and slipped out of her jacket, showing off her sleeves of tattoos. “Got all the makeup I need right here,” she explained, flexing her muscles. “This is true self-expression, I designed all of these and there’s symbolic meanings behind every mark of ink. And from the practical side, why spend hours on your face every morning and when you can go out one day, get a sleeve of tattoos and some piercings, and be set for life? The muscles, those take a bit more work, but at least those don’t wash off in the shower.”

Rosemarie stared at the tattoos. Most of them were inked flowers or ribbons, colored every shade of the rainbow and accented with tiny rhinestone piercings. “You got these all done in one day?” she asked, wide-eyed. 

“Nah. Started getting them when I was about your age, from these two roses on my deltoids. Added a bit more every few months. I was about to get my hands done when the rebels attacked.”

“They’re really cool,” said Rosemarie. She shifted awkwardly. “So…you don’t know anything at all about doing makeup?”

“Why?” asked Claudia. Then she seemed to notice the look on Rosemarie’s plain, unmarked face, as she glanced wistfully over at the other kids. “Ahhh...I bet your mom always did your makeup for you, didn’t she?”

Rosemarie was quiet. Then Claudia remembered what the quiet meant. Claudia herself had only been about six years old when Rosalind Snow, Rosemarie’s mother, died in a car accident, but she could still remember the headlines plastered over every news feed. Rosemarie had been two. She probably didn’t remember much about her mother. 

“Oh,” was all Claudia could say. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Rosemarie shrugged. “But I always had a maid do my makeup. A while ago I wanted to learn to do it myself, but Grandpa always said that I never needed to do anything for myself. So I just let the maids do it.”

“I guess that’s kinda nice,” said Claudia.

Another shrug. “Kinda. But it was always really stupid flowers and baby pastels, I always looked like I was five. I never got to do, like, I dunno, whatever Julius is doing.”

They both looked over to Julius. He had begun to craft a striking flame eye, taking advantage of the reds, blacks, and gold glitter in his eyeshadow palette. Against his dark brown skin, it looked amazing. 

“Yeah, that’s pretty cool,” Claudia agreed. “I can’t do that. But...my baby sisters ask me to do their eyeliner wings all the time. I could do that.”

“Really?”

“I won’t modify your skin due to my moral convictions,” said Claudia, “but I can do something fun on the eyes.”

She went to get a liquid eyeliner pen from Ovidus’ pack and returned to Rosemarie, telling her to sit still and close her eyes. Halfway through applying the ink, Claudia stopped. 

“You know,” she said, “you were right.”

Rosemarie cracked her eyes open. “What?”

“About not talking about killing,” said Claudia, looking out at the others. Julius and Electra were comparing lipstick consistency and Ovidus was adding drops of water to his dark eyeshadow to make it drip down his face. “I kinda like this, just us being stupid kids again.”

“Yeah…” Rosemarie said. Claudia reached forward to work on her other wing, so she closed her eyes again. “I never realized how much I would miss...being home. Even though I was always so lonely there. I used to hate home.”

“Me too.”

“Didn’t you have siblings?”

“Yup.” Claudia popped the P. “Eighteen.”

“Wh...eighteen?”

“Six biological siblings, four half-siblings, six step-siblings, two siblings that are technically cousins. Family tree’s so fucked up that there’s curved lines. And I’m the  _ oldest,  _ so this is all very recent drama.”

“That’s...that’s so many! How could you hate home if you have so many siblings? Don’t you like them?”

“You kidding?” said Claudia. “Siblings are awful. I was taking care of them from the moment the first one was born.”

“Why?”

“Even though we had maids and all, I was always the one responsible for the shit my siblings pulled. Oh, it’s Claudia’s fault that Michelangelo didn’t get his homework done, she should have reminded him! Oh, it’s Claudia’s fault that Ophelia doesn’t have clean underwear, she should have updated the laundry schedule! Claudia’s fault Claudia’s fault Claudia’s fault. No wonder my mom left. Being a housewife fucking sucks.”

She pulled back, seemingly done with the eyeliner. Rosemarie wanted to open her eyes, but was more patient than that. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. 

“Don’t be,” said Claudia. “Not your fault. I’ll get you a mirror really quick.”

She stood up, rustled around in Ovidus’ bag, and returned. 

“Okay, you can look.” 

Rosemarie did. Then she jumped. The girl looking back at her in the compact mirror was a new one, for sure — fearsome. The razor-sharp black wings on her eyelids gave a new depth to her eyes, a wildness, a spark of rebellion. It was so out of character from what she normally saw. From that scared little girl with the sloppy Katniss Everdeen braid to a real Mockingjay.

“You look good,” said Claudia. 

Rosemarie just nodded slowly, her mouth open. Then she looked at Claudia. 

“That’s why you’re like this,” she said, then realized that probably wasn’t the most tactful thing to say and amended it. “You’ve always been confined to that role as a caretaker and leader, so you rebelled by not wearing makeup. And now that you’re truly on your own and part of a team of equals, you’ve let yourself  _ not  _ be the leader. And you do stuff like steal a chandelier because you feel like it. You’ve never had that freedom before.”

Claudia stared at her for a while, her eyes wide. For a moment, Rosemarie was afraid that she had pressed some wrong button. But then Claudia smiled.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “I guess you’re right.”

They sat there, joined by a companionable silence. At any moment, it might get shattered by bored rebel Gamemakers, eager to see more blood. They knew it and they were ready. 

But for now they were content to sit and wait, lost in their thoughts. 


	16. Red Water

Finding water was the easy part. Getting it was not. 

After a half hour of wandering, Petronius was able to get a general grasp of the arena — it was essentially just a ruined, glitching replica of the Capitol, except with the twenty-four replica homes elevated above the area where the tributes’ Training Center should have been. Petronius’ subsequent thought, after realizing this, was “Does that mean there are two replica versions of my home?” but only to think “Probably not”, as he passed through an entire neighborhood that had been leveled to the foundations and was otherwise nothing but a glitchy mess of black holes and static blocks. Petronius’ foot even slipped into a hole and got stuck for a while. The city was not in good shape, and the programming of the place was really, really patchy. Which was probably the idea, but whatever.

Despite spending the whole time with the uncanny sensation of being watched, he only ran into one other tribute, Sabina. Sabina was a heavily modified seventeen-year-old girl who, during training, constantly complained about her ankles hurting because she was used to wearing high heels every day. He had turned a corner and ran right into her, but she just fell backwards and stared at him, trembling. Then she stumbled away. Petronius himself had been so startled that he hadn’t been sure what to do, but didn’t want to chase after her. He didn’t even think he wanted to kill her.

That was the thing he had just avoided thinking about. The reality that if he was to survive, he might have to take a human life. Why was it hard? Why? How had all the previous Games made it look so easy? He didn’t like to think about it. “Because the Capitol dresses it up so it doesn’t look bad,” Crinoline had said once (before they realized they liked each other and things got awkward). “They make special kids’ airings of the Games with the blood and gore partially edited out, the Games you saw recently were probably the young adults’ edits with popular music and all that bullshit. Like they’ve desensitized you since birth, making you think that death is fun. Guess what — once you get in that arena, you’ll find real fast that it’s not.”

Petronius thought he knew what she was talking about. He had met death only once, during the siege on the Capitol. When they heard the news that they needed to evacuate, Atla and Camilla seemed strangely calm. They had told Petronius and Caeneus to stay put and they would be fine. Atla had barely even turned away from typing on her computer and smiling at whatever it was she saw. They almost seemed… relieved. Petronius hadn’t understood, still didn’t. He had argued with his moms, yelled even, threatened to take Caeneus and flee anyway. Finally, later that night, they relented. They fled together, joining the swells of Capitolite citizens on their way to the City Circle. 

They never made it. A rebel ship flew overhead and dropped bombs, killing half the refugees. Petronius and his family spent the remainder of the war — four long, hard days — hiding in the basement of an office building, without food or fresh water, squeezed in a throng of frightened and injured people who all wondered if they would ever see the light of day again. 

It had been horrible. But it wasn’t quite the same. That was war. Petronius couldn’t help those people. The only guilt he had had to deal with was the knowledge that he had almost gotten his family killed. Even that paled in comparison to seeing Lucio’s name in the sky last night, locking eyes with Sabina, and knowing that she was afraid for her life. He was a killer now. And he wasn’t sure how to think of it besides sick. 

“Focus,” he told himself. “Get water for yourself and Themis. Moral quandary later.”

He knew where to find it. Of course, in real life, there was the lake and dam that surrounded the Capitol, but from what he had seen from his apartment view, the arena only seemed to extend to the edges of the Capitol. And the threatening red-orange clouds above seemed more for aesthetics and less for rainfall purposes. So the rebels must have left other water sources — probably well-known ones, to draw tributes together and increase the chance of bloodshed. Classic Games tactics. 

Part of him didn’t think the rebels would be so predictable, but in less than a half hour of walking, he realized he had been right. From his apartment window, he had caught a glimpse of one of the Capitol’s famous landmarks — the East Diadem, one of four major suspension bridges that spanned the diamond-shaped Artolian Canal. It seemed to be in bad shape, but at least it was there. He had kept his eyes on the Diadem ever since fleeing his home and headed there now, hoping that the canal was also untouched. 

And it was. As he crouched in an alley, hand on his glass knife, he stared lustfully at the expanse before him. The water reflected the murky red-orange of the sky, so it was difficult to tell if it was clean, but it was there. Water. Drinkable? Maybe. Wouldn’t that be hilarious, surviving an attack of the most dangerous tributes in the arena only to die while drinking some fucking water. Now that was a way to go.

Still, despite Petronius’ good love of irony, it really wasn’t a time to be a jokester. So he sat, watching the glassy surface of the canal, waiting for…something. 

Then he saw it. A flash of movement from just under the Diadem, on the side closer to Petronius. Petronius hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a small area where the bridge overshadowed the walkway. There was a stocky white-haired boy crouching at the mouth of the alcove, a sword in hand. 

Petronius was too far away to recognize the boy’s face, but the body type and crouch told him who it was. Romulus, the eleven-year-old, Lystria’s brother and one of the last surviving members of Amadeus’ Elites. And he had a sword, just like the ones Petronius had used in training — oh stars, what Petronius would do to have that sword right now. Before Petronius could think of what to do next, Romulus stood up, pulled a metal jug from a pocket on his backpack, and walked out into the open. Then he crouched by the edge of the canal and dipped the jug into it, filling it with water. 

Suddenly, there was a noise, like a stone dropping. It didn’t scare Petronius because he had a nice hiding place, but immediately Romulus jumped up and sprinted. Then, away he went, bounding over a pile of rubble and disappearing.

Leaving the jug behind.

The opportunity was too perfect. And Petronius hadn’t realized how dry his mouth was until then, staring at the abandoned jug. But he knew he had to stay put. Romulus had run for a reason. 

After a painful, thirsty few minutes, Petronius finally lost the will to resist. He stood and jumped out from the alley, crouching with his shorter glass knife at the ready. Then he looked around. Nobody in sight. Just that jug. Delighted, Petronius ran to it, scooping it up, unscrewing the cap, reveling in the weight and the sloshing of water inside. This was it. This was salvation.

He was just about to lift it to his lips when something  _ clicked  _ in his head and caused him to freeze. 

Something didn’t add up. Romulus had been hiding under the bridge. Why on earth would he walk right out into the open to get water, instead of just staying under the bridge and getting the water there? And why did he leave the jug behind and not come back for it? It had been quite a long time. Unless Romulus was being chased — which honestly didn’t seem to be the case — that seemed like something that he would’ve come back for. 

So Petronius turned the jug upside-down and dumped out the water onto the ground. When it hit the rock, it fizzled like acid, dissolving the polished limestone. A few drops splashed against his boots and ate small pits into the leather. 

“Romulus, I’m not drinking that shit,” said Petronius aloud. “Get out here.”

At first there was no response. Then a shuffling of feet against stone and Romulus climbed out from behind a mound of rubble. “Or you’ll what?” he jeered. 

Petronius raised an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t have to do anything now, since you’re out.”

It seemed to take a while for this to compute in Romulus’s brain, but once it did, he scowled and muttered “fuck”. But he didn’t offer any more of an answer, so Petronius tried to press him. 

“Did you just try to trick me into poisoning myself?” he asked. 

“No shit,” said Romulus. “And I almost had you. Least I woulda if you hadn’t pussied out.”

“Um...not drinking poison isn’t ‘pussying out’, but okay,” Petronius said. “Look. I don’t want to fight you — ”

“Too bad! You didn’t die, so you’re gonna get a fight!”

“I just want to know where to find water — ”

“Lystria! NOW!” 

Romulus suddenly ducked to the side...out of range. Petronius’ instincts screamed. In the last split second, he lunged sideways and whirled around, just in time to see a silver spear streak past his chin.

Lystria, Romulus’ fifteen-year-old sister, had jumped out from behind a pile of rubble, holding a round metal shield. Petronius’ eyes widened. He hadn’t paid much attention to Lystria during training. Nobody really had. She was a lot like Callia, soft, fat, and overmodified, always crying about how much her feet hurt and looking in mirrors to fix the white buns in her hair or to check if her rhinestone forehead piercings were staying in. Petronius couldn’t judge her. Everyone had gone through that stage at some point or another. He just hadn’t considered her capable of anything beyond running away.

Now, he realized that he was very wrong. The pure berserker rage on Lystria’s plump face was… _ terrifying.  _ If Petronius hadn’t ducked, that spear would have pierced his unprotected neck, more than enough to injure or even kill him. When Lystria saw that she had missed, she reached to her pack and pulled out a serrated knife. Romulus, in turn, unsheathed his sword. 

Petronius was cornered. Romulus and Lystria stalked forward, their weapons drawn, and involuntarily Petronius backed up towards the acid river. On instinct, his stance shifted wider; he rolled back his shoulders, lowered into a nimble crouch, and put his glass knives away. They wouldn’t do him much good in this kind of fight. 

“I don’t want to fight you,” he said.

“We don’t wanna fight you neither,” Lystria snapped. “But in case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t fucking capture the flag.”

“I never said it was, I just meant we can work this out without anyone getting hurt,” Petronius tried again. They were still advancing, and his heels were getting dangerously close to the edge of the canal. “I can help you guys, we can work together — ”

To his surprise, Romulus cut him off with a bitter laugh. “Together’s a stupid word,” he said. “Amadeus said we’d work together. Now Augusta’s dead, Titania’s dead, all of my friends are dead, Petronius, you get that?”

“I’m sorry, but — ”

“Romulus,” said Lystria. “It’s not worth it. He’s not gonna change his mind.”

She met Petronius’ gaze. Her eyes were tinted a pale baby pink. But there was something deeply unsettling in them. 

“You’ll feel better when he’s dead,” she said quietly. 

_ Shit. _

Romulus swung his sword and ten years of hard, competitive training took over. Petronius dropped to the ground and swung one leg like a scythe, catching Romulus’ knee. The boy went tumbling and Petronius jumped back up, unharmed. 

Lystria charged him, but Petronius was more than ready. He met the surface of her shield with a solid side kick. Just like kicking a practice target. Except that Lystria was not used to holding practice targets for MMA fighters-in-training, and the raw force sent her flying back. 

“Stand DOWN!” Petronius shouted. “I don’t want to hurt anyone!”

“Give me a fucking break,” Romulus growled. He lifted the sword above his head and swung down — but his elbows were locked. Petronius lunged towards him and, very simply, grabbed his wrists. Then he pivoted, pulling Romulus with him, and sent the boy tumbling a second time. The move was sloppy and the sword was jerked ungracefully out of Romulus’ hands, the blade nicking Petronius’ wrist, but Petronius barely felt it.

For a second, all he saw was that sword, rolling down a slope of rubble before stopping just out of reach. It could be his. And then the fight would most definitely work out in his favor. But then he looked and saw that Lystria was up, knife drawn and charging at him a second time, and Romulus was shaking his head and recovering as well.

He pulled his shorter glass knife and grabbed Romulus by the collar. Romulus was strong in his own right, but Petronius was seven years older and so much bigger. There wasn’t even a fight. The knife went against Romulus’ throat, only a thin layer of his shirt fabric keeping it from his skin. 

“I said, STAND DOWN!” Petronius roared. 

Lystria stumbled to a halt, her eyes wide. Romulus had stopped struggling but Petronius kept a firm, unyielding grip on him. The threat was obvious. 

“Tell me where to find water,” said Petronius. 

Romulus stiffened. “Don’t tell him, Lys,” he said. “He’s not gonna kill me.”

“No,” said Petronius. Suddenly he shifted his grip, moving the knife from Romulus’ throat to hovering just above his left eye. “You’ll be glad to hear that losing your eye won’t kill you.”

It was an empty threat. Inwardly, Petronius’ squeamish nature screamed in protest. He wasn’t sure what he would do if Lystria said no. But thankfully, it seemed to work. Lystria met Romulus’ gaze, Romulus just trembled, and then Lystria looked away in shame.

“We get it from this canal,” she said. “But not here.”

“Where?”

“The water under the bridge is safe. Everything else, if you so much as touch it, it burns.”

“May I take one of your water jugs?”

“Wow, jeez, awful polite for a guy threatening to stab out my eye,” Romulus cut in.

“We only have one,” said Lystria, ignoring Romulus.

“No, you don’t,” said Petronius. “You have two because your backpacks are the same. You both have a pocket on the side, that jug I almost poisoned myself with was in Romulus’ pocket. Your pocket is empty but I’m guessing the jug is hidden somewhere, to reduce the risk of someone coming along and stealing it.”

It was a bluff. But a good one — Lystria hesitated. Romulus said, “Just give it to him, Lys.”

“I’m not telling you where the safe one is. You can have that one,” Lystria told Petronius, pointing towards the poisoned water bottle. “Wash it out under the bridge and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“That’s fine,” said Petronius, “but you have to wash the jug. Then I want you to drink some of the water from it. Just to make sure it’s safe.”

The hesitation turned to a full glare. “You’re paranoid,” Lystria sniffed. 

“I live in a constant state of fear. That’s not new,” said Petronius. He liked that phrase. It was kind of a default by now. And Lystria couldn’t seem to think of a reply, so she gave him another nasty look before bending over, picking up the jug, and getting to work.

Five minutes later, after a rigorous process of washing and rewashing from the clean water under the bridge, Lystria filled the jug and sipped it. She made a face, but didn’t immediately keel over in pain, so Petronius finally nodded in approval. 

“It still doesn’t taste good,” she said, “but it’s drinkable. I don’t intend on dying any time soon.”

“I wouldn’t imagine you would,” replied Petronius. She thrust the jug out towards him and he released Romulus, who stumbled away. As soon as Petronius took the jug, Lystria crushed Romulus in an embrace.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Lystria hissed. Her face was buried in Romulus’ silver hair as he trembled in her arms. 

Petronius knew what he had heard, but for a second he couldn’t help but stare. Then he bowed his head, nodded, turned, and ran off. He left Romulus’ sword where it had fallen, beside the blood-red canal.


	17. I Spy

After passing remarks that achieved nothing, President Coin and Plutarch Heavensbee left Crinoline alone in the interrogation lounge. Then Baz and his soldiers escorted her back to the car. She was driven across the Capitol and blindfolded so she couldn’t see where they were taking her, but she didn’t even open her mouth to complain. Right to remain silent, she kept telling herself. Anything she said could be used against her.

When the blindfold came off, she was sitting in a cold cell with a flat metal bench, an extra chair, and a metal bucket. She was starving and had to use the bathroom, but didn’t mention it, just waited for the soldiers to leave before putting the bucket to good use. 

About a half hour later, the cell door unlocked and an elderly woman bustled in. Clearly a born-and-raised Capitolite — her shoes were too tall, her posture too straight, and her suit too trim for her to be anything but. She had short, spiky grey hair that looked as if a cold wind had frosted the tips over, and when she turned to look at Crinoline, Crinoline noticed that her wrinkle-lined eyes were an unnaturally cold blue. But her face, though pale and thin, was a caring face.

“I take it that you are Miss Crinoline Hallenbach,” said the woman, sticking out her hand. “My name is Juno Bell. I’ll be serving as your lawyer.”

Crinoline carefully took Juno’s hand and shook. Her handshake was firm but warm. “Why should I trust you?”

“Times like these make me wish I had a business card that read ‘working with District 13 since I passed the bar exam fifty-two years ago’.” She pulled up the extra chair and took out a pair of diamond-studded eyeglasses, which she set carefully on her nose. Then she looked over the rims at Crinoline. “But since such a thing could be easily fabricated, I doubt you’d trust that either.”

Crinoline did not deny that. “Did Coin send you?”

Juno shook her head. “Plutarch Heavensbee. Coin didn’t want me here.” 

“Why not?” Crinoline asked. “I asked for a lawyer, didn’t I? That’s within my rights.”

“Good question,” said Juno. She set her briefcase on her lap and pulled out a file. Crinoline waited for her to finish her statement and answer her question. Neither happened. 

“And…?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing,” Juno replied, rifling through the file. “I’m glad you insisted on legal counsel; it is, in fact, within your rights. There was no good reason for Coin to prevent me from coming here. But she did, and the only reason I don’t answer ‘why not’ is because I get the impression that, as a rebel, you think somewhat highly of Coin.”

Crinoline shifted. “She’s alright.”

“Okay. Let’s…just leave it at that, then.”

Juno continued flipping through the file, reading in silence as she composed herself. But Crinoline was a little impatient and after a while said, “Petronius never told me anything about a jailbreak. You have to believe me.”

“I believe you,” said Juno. “Unlike Coin, Plutarch and I believe that Petronius isn’t involved.”

“Then why does everyone think that?”

“Mostly, his mothers. Before the war, both women were planted agents for District 13 — as a private shopowner and a housewife, they were able to gain access to a lot of humdrum Capitol news and connections that the Capitol was otherwise very careful to block from reaching District 13. Things like gossip, controversies, weak links in the Senate. They even carried out one or two assassinations.”

Crinoline’s eyes went wide. Petronius had mentioned his mothers, and he said he loved them, but never mentioned anything like them being secret agents. Much less that they were secretly helping District 13. Juno noticed her reaction and nodded solemnly.

“Of course, you didn’t know. Not many do. The secret was kept between Coin, her cabinet, and Atla and Camilla themselves. Petronius still doesn’t know.”

“Then why is he in the Games? If his moms were on our side, why punish him?”

“Atla and Camilla slipped up,” replied Juno. “During the siege on the Capitol, they were supposed to gather information about the placement of pods in a certain sector. But some clever engineer beat them to it and planted a false map for the Lyres to pick up. So when the rebel team moved in, they were wiped out. No one survived.”

“So the rebels thought the Lyres betrayed them,” said Crinoline solemnly.

Juno nodded. “They were pronounced guilty and sentenced to what we’ve come to call a false-loyalist death — even though they begged for their true identities to be revealed to the world and to die as rebels, they will be executed as Capitolite conspirators. No one will ever know that they truly believed in the rebel cause, and their son will die thinking that his mothers killed him.”

Crinoline went quiet. She couldn’t imagine what kind of death that would be, a misunderstood one. Knowing that your legacy was stained forever for something you didn’t do. And poor Petronius...

“So...why does Coin think that he’s involved in the jailbreak?” asked Crinoline.

“Coin suspects that Petronius knows about his mothers’ true identities,” Juno explained. “She claims that, before they were arrested, they told him everything, and might have even given him the jailbreak plan. The reason she thinks so is that Petronius almost seemed like he  _ wanted  _ to be in the Games. He’s almost too old — in a few days, he’s turning nineteen, so he had to do some negotiating in order to be considered. He was the first tribute found, just sitting in his bedroom and waiting to be caught. He was emotional, but he didn’t fight.”

“I know,” said Crinoline quietly. “I was there. But it wasn’t because he wanted to be there. He gave himself up because he didn’t want his brother to go instead.”

“Right,” said Juno. “But to Coin, that seemed suspicious. Then, when Petronius immediately connected with Themis, that seemed twice as bad.”

“Why?”

Juno pursed her lips together as she thought, then sighed. “Themis Gossamer,” she said slowly, “is not a real person.”

Crinoline startled. “She has prosthetics, that doesn’t make her inhuman — ”

“That’s not what I mean,” Juno replied. “The Gossamer family presented themselves to the world as a university professor and a simple-minded cripple. But just like Atla and Camilla, they were members of a high-security special operations group. Except the Gossamers worked from the other side. They gathered information from the rebels and transmitted it to the Capitol, who would use it against us. Charon Gossamer pled guilty. Themis pleaded innocent for her own involvement and, before her trial, escaped to District 11 where she hid for two months. Here’s the thing — if Themis hadn’t run, she would have won her trial.”

“You know that for sure?”

“When we arrested Charon in his house, Themis was locked in a hidden office and had evidence of long-term physical abuse and malnourishment all over her. She had helped Charon in some cases, mostly being used as an errand girl, but none seemed out of her own choice. Nobody wanted to convict her and Themis knew it. But she ran anyway.”

“Like she was trying to make herself a target,” said Crinoline quietly. 

Juno snapped her fingers. “Exactly. Her kill of the rebel soldier was planned, too. She didn’t throw a bomb — she pressed a button on her cybernetic hand to set off a detonator in the floor, like she had planned on being caught in that very room. This morning, when Petronius opened up Themis’ hand to check the damages, one of the Gamemakers recognized a certain set of wiring that confirmed this. Themis wasn’t thrown into the arena. She  _ wanted  _ to be there.”

“Just like they think that Petronius wants to be there,” Crinoline finished. “So…now that they’re together…” 

“It’s only confirmed Coin’s suspicions about Petronius’ involvement,” said Juno. “And you’re here because of your history as a covert operative, because you gave Petronius that sedative that allowed him to think more clearly, and because Petronius gave Themis the food that you let him steal. At this point, any connection to answers is a good one, so Coin arrested you.”

Crinoline went quiet, deep in thought. She had more questions than she could list, so she just picked one and decided to go from there.

“Coin said that the Ivory kid is also involved,” she said. “Didn’t he try to kill Themis at one point?”

“We’re...not actually sure,” Juno admitted. “About any of that, actually. The reason Caius Ivory was singled out was because he was the only tribute with whom Themis had ever connected before. Most of the other tributes have a pretty broad network of friends in the arena, but in Themis’ background check, only Caius came up. Their fathers were close to begin with. And last year, Caius and Themis were both enrolled in a 300-level cybernetics engineering course at the university. Themis, we know why she was there, her father was the professor and she has cybernetics herself, but Caius — well, we just don’t know. You pass that boy through a metal detector, the only thing that comes up are his ear piercings. So Coin’s hypothesis is that Caius was another agent in training, or even perhaps a handler for Themis. Knowing how to manipulate her cybernetic parts might come in handy.”

“So why did he try to kill her in the arena?”

“That’s another thing we don’t know. There was a moment — I’m sure you saw it in the highlights — when Petronius, Themis, and Caius were all in the same frame together. Caius and Themis were doing something very curious until Petronius intervened. We’ve had analysts on that for hours and nobody knows for sure what that was about. But whatever it is, every hypothesis they make is wrong. You know why?”

“Because they’re trying to fit Petronius into the picture,” said Crinoline slowly. “And he wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

“Smart girl. I can see why Petronius likes you.” Juno gave her a knowing look and her cheeks warmed. “They want you because they’re looking for an answer that fits all three variables, and they think you have it. But that answer doesn’t exist. So that’s where I come in.”

Juno put all of her files into her briefcase and set the case on the floor, leaning closer to Crinoline as if to tell her a secret. She looked over the rim of her half-moon glasses, meeting Crinoline’s gaze.

“I’m going to prove your innocence by proving Petronius’ innocence,” said Juno. “And to do that, we’re going to find out what Themis and Caius are really up to inside that arena.”


	18. Trust Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m back on my bullshit! More expositional Petronius-Themis dialogue. Glad to have you with me.

**** When Petronius returned to the crumbling salon, Themis was gone. Her chair, where he had left her, was empty. As he opened the door and stepped inside, his foot  _ crunched  _ on something — a fallen hard-boiled egg.

“Themis?” he called, his voice high. 

There was a rustle and he reached for one glass knife. Then Themis rose from behind the receptionist’s desk, the aluminum baseball bat balanced awkwardly on her shoulder. “Petronius?” she croaked. Then she dropped the bat and stepped out, stumbling towards him with her arms outstretched. He caught her and she was shaking like a leaf.

“Hey — hey, it’s just me,” he said, reaching to hug her. But then she made a strange jerking movement and pulled away from the embrace, even though she was still shaking, so he let her. No need to force a hug, no hard feelings. When she reached out her hands again, lost, he touched her shoulder gently to let her know where he was. “I’m here. Are you okay?”

She shook her head, then nodded, then hesitated and finally settled on shaking her head. “No. No, I’m not, I still can’t see, I can’t get my hands to work, I couldn’t even eat that stupid egg, and I thought you’d left me for dead. This is awful.”

“I understand,” said Petronius. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”

“You’d better be.”

“I am. But I got water.”

He led her back to the chair and lifted the quart jug to her lips. “It’s not a lot, we have to ration it,” he explained, “but at least we know where to find it. Under the bridges.”

After Themis was done taking her sips, she clumsily wiped her mouth on her shirt sleeve. “Pity I can’t see the bridges.”

“I’m sorry,” Petronius said. “How are your legs feeling?”

“They’re feeling.” She wiggled her toes and then bent her knees, letting the bare soles of her feet press against the recliner cushion. “A lot.”

“And that’s good?”

“I’m still getting a hang of it.” She shrugged, but then seemed to realize Petronius was quickly becoming lost of whatever she was saying. “When I had you poking around in there, I was actually guiding you on how to modify the sensitivity of certain pressure pads. So when I stand up, or put my feet down on something…” 

She lifted her feet and tapped the chair cushion. Her dead eyes opened, still blackened and out of focus, but a new light glinted in them. 

“The embedded nerve sensors aren’t looking for a physical sensation anymore. They’re looking for vibrations. Vibrations that travel through whatever I’m standing on. It’s not terribly accurate, but in a way, I can see — I can feel what or who is around me, even if I can’t reach out and touch it.”

“That’s amazing,” Petronius said, genuinely surprised. “You figured that out by yourself?”

“I...um...saw it in an old cartoon.”

“Nice.”

“I guess. It’s kind of nice.”

“Still. It’s so cool that you know so much about tech. I mean, granted, you have your prosthetics on all the time, but I know people with prosthetics who don’t know the first thing about how they work.”

Themis nodded and paused, as if composing her thoughts, then seemed to decide on something because she nodded again. “I used to study cybernetics at the university. My dad taught there, so he just enrolled me as a special case and taught me everything he knew.”

She hesitated again. There were an abnormal amount of those kinds of pauses, Petronius observed. “What is it?” Petronius asked.

“Nothing,” she said, much too quickly.

“If there’s anything that I can do to help you, I’ll do it. I wanna help.”

Yet another hesitation. Then, laughing breathily, Themis shook her head.

“This is crazy,” she said. “You’re not going to like this.”

“Can’t know ‘til you ask,” Petronius shrugged.

“It’s really an awful idea.”

“It’ll be awful if it doesn’t work.”

“Just...shut up and let me think.” She paused, composed herself, lifted her clenched hands to her chest, and sighed. “Okay. So...about Caius.”

“The guy who tried to kill you,” Petronius added.

“No — yes. Yes. The guy who tried to kill me. The thing is, we knew each other before the Games. He was a special case at the university too, studied cybernetics with me. He was better at it than I was — he had a gift for wiring.”

“Oh,” said Petronius. Now he thought he knew where this was going. “So…”

“I want to find him and form an alliance,” said Themis. “He could run any program through any hardware, no matter how broken; my hands and eyes might not even be a challenge. He’s...he’s my last hope.”

Petronius stared at her for a while. He assumed that this was some sort of joke, but Themis actually seemed totally serious. 

“That is, indeed, an awful idea,” he said. 

She sighed. “I know.”

“What makes you think he’ll help?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “We don’t exactly have anything to offer, other than protection in numbers.”

“And these guns,” Petronius joked, flexing his muscles. He wouldn’t have done so if Themis could still see, but she couldn’t. Which turned out to be the problem. 

“You have guns?” she asked. “What kind? That’s a significant tactical advantage — ”

“No! Not real guns,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry. I meant, like, you know, how strong we are. You’re real smart and I’m a good fighter. I just took down Lystria and Romulus at the same time.”

She looked puzzled. “That doesn’t say much. Romulus is eleven and Lystria is just sad.”

“Look, she’s not as weak as she seemed during training. I think she trained in secret, like at night or something, because she’s actually really good. She and Romulus got their hands on some nice packs and weapons, so they must’ve been really smart at the Cornucopia. They had Lystria as the element of surprise.”

“We could ally with them,” Themis suggested, “and then Caius might really want to join us.”

“Probably not going to happen. I think they both hate me now.”

“Yeah…”

“But we don’t need them,” said Petronius. “We’ll figure something out, okay? Let’s just rest for now.”

She looked worried, but that wasn’t new. Then she slipped clumsily out of the chair and stood up, shifting her bare feet over the ground.

“I’m going to practice,” she said.


	19. The Bird's Eye and the Hanging Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am alive
> 
> content warning for mention of suicide

When Rosemarie awoke, it was the middle of the night. She was sweating and trembling. Her cheeks were stiff with old, dried tears, and her eyes still stung with fresh ones. 

She sat up. The fire was dying. Next to her mattress, Electra was curled up on the ground, her hand brushing her knife. Julius was on the other side, sitting up against the Cornucopia but fast asleep. Claudia snored with a stolen pillow under her head. Rosemarie’s brow furrowed. Then she made out the hunched, upright silhouette on the outskirts of the camp, perched on a ruined stone and staring out into the night. 

Rubbing her eyes, Rosemarie stood and made her way across the camp. “Ovidus?” she said quietly. 

He glanced over his shoulder. He was wearing night vision goggles, which gave his gaunt face a strange, bug-like appearance. Rosemarie wrapped her jacket around herself, uncomfortable. Ovidus was not a comforting presence — she didn’t like him at all; he was greasy and just a little weird. But he was an ally and he was awake. 

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Too early to be up,” Ovidus replied. “I assume you had another nightmare.”

Rosemarie shifted her weight. In the nightmare, she had been hiding in her house, just like at the beginning of the Games. Except that when her allies knocked at the door to find her again, it wasn’t to help her; they had their weapons out and eyes closed. Lucio was alive but had no eyes, just pitted black sockets, and he grinned. Leading the way were all the tributes that had died, covered in blood, their hands reaching towards her. 

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Why are you awake?”

“We have a shadow,” he said.

He took off the night vision goggles and gave them to Rosemarie. As she slipped them on, the world was plunged into green and it took a moment for her to reorient herself. Then Ovidus put his hand on her shoulder and pointed into the distance.

At first, she wasn’t sure what he was pointing to. The skyline? It was just ruined towers and glitching cubes of matter, floating up into nowhere. But as her eyes passed over the same area again and again, something gradually began to seem less normal about the shapes she saw. On one building, most of its walls had been stripped away, leaving only the steel skeleton intact, but something had still climbed to the top. A tribute. He was standing perfectly still in a square metal frame, one hand on the vertical beam for balance.

“Do you see him?” asked Ovidus quietly.

“Yes,” said Rosemarie. Even more unsettled, she handed the goggles back and shrank into her jacket as if it would protect her. Maybe the layers of armor weren’t such a bad idea.

“That’s Caius,” said Ovidus. “He was here last night while we were all sleeping; we were missing some food and a knife this morning. Could’ve killed us all and we wouldn’t have opened our eyes again.”

Now Rosemarie’s eyes were the size of tea saucers. Deep fear began to trickle into her gut, freezing her up. There was something in this arena that was much more frightening than Ovidus. There was the silent watcher, Caius, who had barely spoken a word during training and refused to even consider alliance. Not that he seemed to need it. 

“He lived on the floor below me, sixth floor,” Ovidus continued, “and during the night he’d sneak up to the roof just for fun. Practicing, I suppose. Every once in a while I would see him scaling the outside of the building, climbing right past my window.”

Rosemarie squirmed. “You’re just trying to scare me,” she accused. “I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, but it’s true,” Ovidus said, his face perfectly deadpan. “I think he’s got old native blood in him — they say the natives built our oldest buildings by hand, climbing the iron hundreds of feet off the ground without ropes or nets. Fearless. Silent as cats, too.”

“Stop it,” Rosemarie told him. “You got that from Lucio and Lucio was racist.”

“Who told you that? Claudia?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Just don’t say that.”

“Okaaay,” said Ovidus, drawing out the last syllable. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Sweet dreams.”

Rosemarie wanted to snap back, “if I have another nightmare, that’s your fault” but she got the feeling that Ovidus would just give that smarmy grin. So she just huffed and returned to her mattress. She had all her favorite blankets and pillows from her house. But still, it did nothing to ease the cold and dark. Or the haunting, green-cast image of Caius at the top of a ruined building, fearless of the hundred-foot drop below him, his eyes only fixed on their little camp and sleeping bodies. Or the distant sound of what almost seemed like music, like a little girl’s voice, singing —

_ Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be...if we met...at midnight… _

BOOM!

She bolted upright. Instantly, the rest of the camp scrambled to their feet. “Who’s there?!” Electra shouted, drawing her knife. She met Rosemarie’s eyes for a split second as she whirled around. Everyone, at some point, looked back to see if Rosemarie was safe, which she was, if not a little shaken. 

“Headcount!” Julius called. “Rosemarie, you’re okay, Electra, Claudia, Ovidus, me, we’re all here. What was that?”

“Unless Caius fell off the building, it wasn’t him,” said Ovidus.

“Must’ve been someone further off,” Claudia said, trying to sound bold, but her voice was trembling. 

A familiar sound began to play — the old anthem, blaring around the arena. They all looked up. Then Callia’s youthful face appeared on the dark red clouds, a hint of a daring smile still on her lips. 

“I thought...she was in her house,” Electra murmured.

“She was,” said Ovidus.

He pointed and they turned. A drone had appeared in the clouds and now hovered above Callia’s house, casting a harsh spotlight down. Somewhere in the Capitol, a rebel technician pressed a button and the ceiling of Callia’s house dissolved into static. The drone dropped a stun cable. 

Then little Callia rose in the beam of light, a paracord necklace trailing behind her. 

Electra gave a choked cry. Rosemarie jerked away and Julius held her. Claudia’s hands cupped over her mouth. 

If it had happened at any other time, the silence might not have been as empty. They had all cheered at death before. In the arena, as they killed at the bloodbath. During the war, as spies and rebels were beheaded in the squares. Watching the old Games, as district children slaughtered each other in droves. It was natural. It was justice. It needed to be done. In the light of day, there was no argument against tragedies like Callia.

But Callia still smiled among the stars. Twelve years old. Bright, curious, daring eyes. Long red hair, now mingling with the paracord. It was night and few of them had been awake longer than a minute. 

The human mind is a funny thing. It is malleable and capricious and self-contradictory, and there are times when it is more so than usual, in the dark, when afraid, or when alone. And there are things within it that can remain untouched for years, decades, even  _ generations _ — until suddenly, unexpectedly, flickering on. It was something about the night. About having just woken up, afraid for their lives. It was unexplainable. It was a deep, fond sadness, burning deep within. 

When the drone and Callia’s picture disappeared from the sky, it took a long time for the tributes to pull away. Ovidus was the first, stirring the embers of the fire and adding new wood. Once there was light, they sat down on their bedrolls again. 

Instead of returning to her mattress, Rosemarie nestled between Julius and Claudia. She knew that made her seem like a scared little kid, but...well...she was scared now. And she felt safer with them. There was an unspoken agreement that they, in turn, felt safer with her too. 

“Twelve dead,” said Electra softly. Sabina had died at around sunset, but none of them knew from what.

“Halfway there,” Ovidus finished. “All of these houses are empty now.”

They all knew what that meant. Once all of the tributes were out of their houses, there was nothing left to do in this little clearing except protect the Cornucopia. And as long as they had the full Cornucopia, they were a bigger target to thieves like Caius and, even worse, bored Gamemakers. 

“We need to move on,” said Electra. “Tomorrow morning, we pack up, destroy everything we don’t need, and get out of here.”

“With Rosemarie?” asked Julius. 

“Rosemarie too,” Electra replied. “We don’t know if anyone out there has allied together. I would rather that we bring her and have four warriors all in one place than split up.”

The others nodded. They had practiced group formations quite often while training and knew that strength did, in fact, come in numbers. But they were all hesitant nods. There was something comforting about this circle, and something deeply threatening about the city beyond. 

“But for now, we should rest,” said Electra. “Everything is about to change.”


End file.
